worst time.
He’d hurt her feelings, but it was all to the good.
And tomorrow he’d steer way clear. Sleep in late and zip out early—play some basketball, visit Heather, his singer friend, maybe drop by Jasmine’s for more blackjack with Sabrina. No way was he hanging around the house to be tempted by the mouth he’d just tasted—those lips, slippery and fleshy, had melded with his like a missing part of his face. He wished he’d cupped her cheek, checked out the rest of her skin, pulled her close enough to run his thumbs over those nipple buds.
Forget it. He’d done the right thing. She’d given up fast, gotten hurt in a flash. Which proved how vulnerable she was. And made him certain she’d turn sex into a big, friggin’ deal. He was decent at the deed, judging from his partners’ reactions. He paid attention, mainly, and he knewhow to hold back. Ladies first and all that. But the women he slept with were in it for the sex. Period. Heidi’s heart was as tender as her lips had been, he was sure. She’d want more. Much more.
He finished his drink and took hers into the kitchen to dump. Once there, he noticed that goofy tree she’d brought. It looked a little wilted, so he poured her JD into it. Was whiskey too harsh for the roots? He dumped some water in to flush away the liquor. That damn tree was the only thing the woman owned. The last thing he wanted to do was kill it.
S HE LOOKED LIKE A HOOKER , Heidi concluded, checking herself out in the bathroom mirror on Monday morning. She wore the closest to a normal outfit she could make from the clothes in the closet and the ones Jackson had brought her—a shimmering white, see-through blouse over a red, spaghetti-strapped tank top and a pair of zebra-stripped clam diggers that almost cut off her circulation. Everything else was cropped, skin-tight or ultrashort.
The earth shoes she’d worn to drive up here were too casual, so she’d chosen a pair of sky-high platform wedgies in a tiger stripe from the closet.
At the best, she looked, well, festive.
She checked her watch. Just enough time to eat breakfast before catching the bus that would get her to the salon by nine.
She hadn’t seen Jackson at all on Sunday. This relieved and mortified her. He was avoiding her. What did he think she was going to do? Force her tiny breasts into his hands?
After her Sunday morning shower, she’d walked to a nearby apartment complex to check out availability and price. By the time she’d returned, Jackson had gone, leaving a steamed-up shower smelling of bay rum, a cereal bowl in the sink, and some heavy metal playing on the stereo. He’d obviously been listening for her to go and leaped into action.
So embarrassing. All because of the Tiki Town incident. Now she felt like an unwelcome interloper.
Living here was strangely intimate, even with Jackson gone all the time. It was like a relationship without the closeness. Her bathroom served as the main bath, since the pressure was low in the master bath, so Jackson’s toiletries were there and she’d had to use his comb, deodorant, shaving cream and one of his disposable razors. It was all so very personal.
Now she ate a bowl of Jackson’s corn flakes, rinsed the dish, then watered her ficus for luck. If things went well, she would not only have more hours at the salon, but a possible place to stay that got her out of the awkward position of being in Jackson’s debt, inconveniencing him and lusting after him all at the same time.
The beer-maid clock told her she had just enough time to make it to the bus stop, so she tiptoed out, locked the door and slipped Jackson’s spare key into what passed for a purse—a leopard-spotted nightclub clutch with a rhinestone clasp. It held a pencil and a small tablet for notes and her phone, along with twenty dollars, including change for the bus, which Jackson had thoughtfully left for her last night. The only things that actually belonged to her were her cell phone,
He’d hurt her feelings, but it was all to the good.
And tomorrow he’d steer way clear. Sleep in late and zip out early—play some basketball, visit Heather, his singer friend, maybe drop by Jasmine’s for more blackjack with Sabrina. No way was he hanging around the house to be tempted by the mouth he’d just tasted—those lips, slippery and fleshy, had melded with his like a missing part of his face. He wished he’d cupped her cheek, checked out the rest of her skin, pulled her close enough to run his thumbs over those nipple buds.
Forget it. He’d done the right thing. She’d given up fast, gotten hurt in a flash. Which proved how vulnerable she was. And made him certain she’d turn sex into a big, friggin’ deal. He was decent at the deed, judging from his partners’ reactions. He paid attention, mainly, and he knewhow to hold back. Ladies first and all that. But the women he slept with were in it for the sex. Period. Heidi’s heart was as tender as her lips had been, he was sure. She’d want more. Much more.
He finished his drink and took hers into the kitchen to dump. Once there, he noticed that goofy tree she’d brought. It looked a little wilted, so he poured her JD into it. Was whiskey too harsh for the roots? He dumped some water in to flush away the liquor. That damn tree was the only thing the woman owned. The last thing he wanted to do was kill it.
S HE LOOKED LIKE A HOOKER , Heidi concluded, checking herself out in the bathroom mirror on Monday morning. She wore the closest to a normal outfit she could make from the clothes in the closet and the ones Jackson had brought her—a shimmering white, see-through blouse over a red, spaghetti-strapped tank top and a pair of zebra-stripped clam diggers that almost cut off her circulation. Everything else was cropped, skin-tight or ultrashort.
The earth shoes she’d worn to drive up here were too casual, so she’d chosen a pair of sky-high platform wedgies in a tiger stripe from the closet.
At the best, she looked, well, festive.
She checked her watch. Just enough time to eat breakfast before catching the bus that would get her to the salon by nine.
She hadn’t seen Jackson at all on Sunday. This relieved and mortified her. He was avoiding her. What did he think she was going to do? Force her tiny breasts into his hands?
After her Sunday morning shower, she’d walked to a nearby apartment complex to check out availability and price. By the time she’d returned, Jackson had gone, leaving a steamed-up shower smelling of bay rum, a cereal bowl in the sink, and some heavy metal playing on the stereo. He’d obviously been listening for her to go and leaped into action.
So embarrassing. All because of the Tiki Town incident. Now she felt like an unwelcome interloper.
Living here was strangely intimate, even with Jackson gone all the time. It was like a relationship without the closeness. Her bathroom served as the main bath, since the pressure was low in the master bath, so Jackson’s toiletries were there and she’d had to use his comb, deodorant, shaving cream and one of his disposable razors. It was all so very personal.
Now she ate a bowl of Jackson’s corn flakes, rinsed the dish, then watered her ficus for luck. If things went well, she would not only have more hours at the salon, but a possible place to stay that got her out of the awkward position of being in Jackson’s debt, inconveniencing him and lusting after him all at the same time.
The beer-maid clock told her she had just enough time to make it to the bus stop, so she tiptoed out, locked the door and slipped Jackson’s spare key into what passed for a purse—a leopard-spotted nightclub clutch with a rhinestone clasp. It held a pencil and a small tablet for notes and her phone, along with twenty dollars, including change for the bus, which Jackson had thoughtfully left for her last night. The only things that actually belonged to her were her cell phone,
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