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Authors: Lisa Renée Jones
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to business owner, it wasn’t exactly bringing in the dough, either.
Delicately, she cleared her throat. “I’ll just leave you to privately look it over. I’ll—”
His gaze lifted to hers. “Open it.”
“No, no,” she said. “I’ll let you. I’ll just go…” She pointed to the rows of worn, wooden shelves, with two, equally worn, cozy chairs framing them. “Over there somewhere.”
“Embarrassed, Kim?”
“Yes,” she said straightening. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
“It’s just a book,” he said, unwrapping it to reveal the small, well-worn brown cover with the barely legible title in Sanskrit which she knew read Kama Sutra . “Sex is as natural as the human body itself.”
She ran her hands down the back of her brown suede skirt, the above-knee length suddenly making her feel as exposed as this conversation. “Yes, but if we walked around naked, we’d still be arrested for indecent exposure.”
He studied her, no laughter, no smile, simply inscrutable. And silent, though she had the impression he was sizing her up. Seconds later, he covered the book. “The book is for a very special art exhibit next Saturday night. It is, shall we say, an adventure into sensual exploration, a highly exclusive, invitation-only event. I’d like you, as the book’s huntress, to be my guest.”
Her heart stuttered. “You want me to…” Had he just said sensual exploration? “I…no, no, I—”
“Want to go, but you’re afraid,” he said, picking up both of his treasure books. “Which is exactly why you need to do this. And exactly why I’m going to leave before you make an excuse you don’t really want to make. I’ll send a car to the store for you, Saturday at 8:00 p.m.” He turned and headed for the door.
“Wait!” she said, stepping toward the door. “Blake, wait—”
He turned at the door. “I’ll see you Saturday night, Kimberly.” He smiled and pushed open the door.
Kimberly? Why did her full name spoken in that moment, by this man, sound darn near like foreplay?
Saturday night had arrived, and Kim hadn’t heard from Blake since his announcement that she was going to the exhibit with him—tonight. She was going with him tonight. Still in her robe, Kim stood in the closet of her downtown apartment, tossing clothes off hangers in a fit of “What do I wear?”
“Wear my red silk dress.” The answer came from her roommate and the co-owner of the bookstore, Jessica Trap, who stood in the doorway, red dress in hand. “It’s sexy and bold. It says you aren’t afraid.”
“Absolutely not,” Kim said, shaking her head and pointing at the offending garment. “That dress has cleavage to the waist, not to mention it’s red. Great for a blonde like yourself—” she motioned to the freshly styled abundance of red curls on her head “—but in case you didn’t notice, I have enough red going on with my hair.” She snatched the emerald-green dress she’d dropped on the floor and held it up. The neckline was high, up to her throat—safe. She needed something safe, something that made her feel in control.
“Sure,” Jessica said, leaning a shoulder on the doorjamb. “If you want to look like the daughter of a couple of schoolteachers, all prim and proper and prudish, then yeah, sure. Wear that one.”
“I am the daughter of a couple of schoolteachers.”
“Since when does that come with the requirement of being sexually repressed?”
“Sexually repressed?” She gaped, appalled, indignant. “I am not sexually repressed.”
“When was the last time you had an orgasm you didn’t give yourself?”
Kim crossed her arms in front of her chest and glared. “That was low and you know it.” Low because Kim had confessed her orgasm history to Jessica—or rather lack thereof—only months before. No man, not even Joseph, her attorney ex-boyfriend whom she’d dated two years too long, had given her an orgasm with actual intercourse—ever.
“You want this
Delicately, she cleared her throat. “I’ll just leave you to privately look it over. I’ll—”
His gaze lifted to hers. “Open it.”
“No, no,” she said. “I’ll let you. I’ll just go…” She pointed to the rows of worn, wooden shelves, with two, equally worn, cozy chairs framing them. “Over there somewhere.”
“Embarrassed, Kim?”
“Yes,” she said straightening. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
“It’s just a book,” he said, unwrapping it to reveal the small, well-worn brown cover with the barely legible title in Sanskrit which she knew read Kama Sutra . “Sex is as natural as the human body itself.”
She ran her hands down the back of her brown suede skirt, the above-knee length suddenly making her feel as exposed as this conversation. “Yes, but if we walked around naked, we’d still be arrested for indecent exposure.”
He studied her, no laughter, no smile, simply inscrutable. And silent, though she had the impression he was sizing her up. Seconds later, he covered the book. “The book is for a very special art exhibit next Saturday night. It is, shall we say, an adventure into sensual exploration, a highly exclusive, invitation-only event. I’d like you, as the book’s huntress, to be my guest.”
Her heart stuttered. “You want me to…” Had he just said sensual exploration? “I…no, no, I—”
“Want to go, but you’re afraid,” he said, picking up both of his treasure books. “Which is exactly why you need to do this. And exactly why I’m going to leave before you make an excuse you don’t really want to make. I’ll send a car to the store for you, Saturday at 8:00 p.m.” He turned and headed for the door.
“Wait!” she said, stepping toward the door. “Blake, wait—”
He turned at the door. “I’ll see you Saturday night, Kimberly.” He smiled and pushed open the door.
Kimberly? Why did her full name spoken in that moment, by this man, sound darn near like foreplay?
Saturday night had arrived, and Kim hadn’t heard from Blake since his announcement that she was going to the exhibit with him—tonight. She was going with him tonight. Still in her robe, Kim stood in the closet of her downtown apartment, tossing clothes off hangers in a fit of “What do I wear?”
“Wear my red silk dress.” The answer came from her roommate and the co-owner of the bookstore, Jessica Trap, who stood in the doorway, red dress in hand. “It’s sexy and bold. It says you aren’t afraid.”
“Absolutely not,” Kim said, shaking her head and pointing at the offending garment. “That dress has cleavage to the waist, not to mention it’s red. Great for a blonde like yourself—” she motioned to the freshly styled abundance of red curls on her head “—but in case you didn’t notice, I have enough red going on with my hair.” She snatched the emerald-green dress she’d dropped on the floor and held it up. The neckline was high, up to her throat—safe. She needed something safe, something that made her feel in control.
“Sure,” Jessica said, leaning a shoulder on the doorjamb. “If you want to look like the daughter of a couple of schoolteachers, all prim and proper and prudish, then yeah, sure. Wear that one.”
“I am the daughter of a couple of schoolteachers.”
“Since when does that come with the requirement of being sexually repressed?”
“Sexually repressed?” She gaped, appalled, indignant. “I am not sexually repressed.”
“When was the last time you had an orgasm you didn’t give yourself?”
Kim crossed her arms in front of her chest and glared. “That was low and you know it.” Low because Kim had confessed her orgasm history to Jessica—or rather lack thereof—only months before. No man, not even Joseph, her attorney ex-boyfriend whom she’d dated two years too long, had given her an orgasm with actual intercourse—ever.
“You want this
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