Chapter Three
Lisa
Does it count as false bravado if I really, really want to be the sort of brave, confident, sexy woman who’d bring a tattooed bad boy home for a one-night stand?
This, and other thoughts, are whirling through my brain as I unlock the front door to my condo and usher Dax inside. “Pardon the mess,” I tell him, breathing in the pleasant scent of pomegranate and mission fig wafting from the Pottery Barn diffuser on the credenza. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
Dax steps into my living room and turns a slow circle, a bit like a bull in a china shop. A really big, virile bull. I swallow hard as he turns back to face me.
“This looks like something out of a home decorating magazine,” he says. “Where exactly is the mess?”
I frown and hustle forward to straighten the coffee table book that’s at a 65-degree angle instead of a 45-degree angle. There’s also a teaspoon in the sink from my morning Earl Grey, and I rush over to load it in the dishwasher.
It occurs to me this is not how most women kick off an episode of wild, no-strings sex.
“Sorry,” I say, not sure if I’m apologizing for the teaspoon or the fact that I’m behaving like Martha Stewart on speed. “I’m, uh…a little new at this.”
He studies me a moment, those icy-blue eyes assessing. Then he nods. “Look, we don’t have to do anything if that was all a show for your sisters.”
“What?”
He shrugs and offers a heartbreakingly kind look, which is sooo different from the smoldering gaze he should be giving a woman he wants to shag silly. God, I’m blowing this.
“I get it,” he says as he leans back against the wall of my foyer, the sympathy in his eyes making me want to hide under the dining room table. “I promise you won’t hurt my feelings if that was just an act for Missy and Cassie. How about I give you a hickey for proof, and then I’ll be on my way. You’ll never have to see me again.”
I’m touched that he’d offer something like that. Okay, maybe not the hickey. Still, it shows he’s concerned about me. That he’s giving me a chance to change my mind or back out. Or wait. Is he the one who wants to back out?
Determined to take the bull—the very virile bull—by the horns, I smooth my hands down the front of my Diane von Furstenberg pencil skirt and square my shoulders.
“I can assure you, I totally want to screw.” I wince at my own words, feeling heat creep into my cheeks. “People don’t say that, do they?”
Dax shakes his head, a bemused glint in his eye. There’s a sexiness in his smile that wasn’t there five seconds ago, and my pulse ticks up a notch. “People don’t generally say that,” he confirms. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t hot as hell, though.”
I take a shaky breath and wonder what happened to my bravado. It seems to be evaporating now that I’m here in my home revealing how very uncool I am. “Um, look—could we maybe sit and…uh, talk first, or something?”
He laughs and pushes himself off the wall. He moves closer to me, close enough to brush the tips of my fingers with his knuckles. He takes my right hand in his, then the left, making goose bumps prickle all the way up my arms.
“For the record,” he says, “it’s not my MO to pounce on a woman the second I walk through the door. Not unless she asks me to.”
The fact that he phrased it that way sends a funny shudder of relief through me. I’m not sure if it’s because I like knowing one of us has some experience here, or that I appreciate the acknowledgment that I’m calling the shots. That I have the right to say no at any time.
But “no” is the last thing on my mind as he strokes my knuckles with the pad of one oversized thumb. It’s gentle and warm, and I’m not even sure he knows he’s doing it. The gesture is almost as soothing as the earthy, sagebrush scent of his cologne or aftershave or deodorant or whatever the hell it is. Maybe it’s just Dax. In any case, my shoulders start to unclench.
“I’m sorry, where are my manners?” I clear my throat and take a half-step toward the kitchen. “Let me just pour us some wine—”
“Nope,” he says, tightening his hold on my hands. He looks deep into my eyes, and I suppress a shiver. “That’s my one rule,” he says. “If you need a buzz to go through with this, I’m not the guy for the job.”
I nod, thrilled by his take-charge approach. Gary was never like that. Dax is right, of course. If I’m going to do this, I should be fully aware of what I’m choosing. Fully committed to this act of debauchery.
Do wanton women use words like debauchery? Or wanton?
“How about Perrier?” I offer, determined to be a good hostess. “I also have Evian or La Croix if you prefer.”
Dax frowns. “Can I just get some water?”
I start to point out that those were all different types of water, but maybe he knows this. Maybe he wants to see if I’m the sort of spontaneous girl who can be wild and crazy and drink straight-up tap water.
Oh my God, shut up.
I swallow hard and try my best to appear cool and composed.
“Lisa?”
“Yeah?”
“Is there a reason you’re gripping my hand like you’re trying to squeeze juice out of a grapefruit?”
I look down to see he’s right. I’m like a freaking anaconda. I drop his hand like it’s on fire. “I’m sorry, I’m just a little nervous.”
He smiles and takes my hand back, then reaches for the other. Now we’re standing here in the middle of my living room holding hands like two four-year-olds playing ring-around-the-rosie.
This is so not how I imagined my first no-strings hookup.
“Close your eyes.” His voice is low and soothing, and I obey without hesitation. I don’t even ask why.
“Very good.” Something about his gentle baritone makes my heart slow from a gallop to a canter.
“Breathe in through your nose,” he says softly. “Inhale for a count of one…two…three…four…five…six.” His voice is steady, unhurried, and his hands are warm around mine.
I do exactly what he says. I swear I’d jump off my roof right now as long as he ordered me to do it in this velvet-edged, milk-chocolaty voice.
“Now exhale for a count of eight…seven…six…five…four…three…two…one,” he murmurs. “That’s it. Good girl.”
He’s breathing with me, I can tell. My eyes are still closed, but he’s so close I can sense the rise and fall of his chest. Is this foreplay? I have no idea. Gary’s idea of foreplay was muting the ten o’clock news and patting the mattress beside him. Don’t think I didn’t notice how he’d peer at the stock market crawl over my shoulder.
“You’re breathing fast again,” Dax says, jarring me back to the moment. “Focus on breathing in slowly through your nose for six breaths. Then out for eight. Always more breaths going out than in.”
“How do you know this?” I ask.
My eyes are still closed, but I feel his hands tense in mine. “Practiced a lot of self-soothing as a kid.”
There’s a gruffness to his voice that wasn’t there a few minutes ago, and I start to open my eyes. But Dax gives my fingers a gentle squeeze and keeps counting.
“In for one…two…three…four…five…six,” he murmurs.
How many minutes pass? Maybe only a few seconds. I could stand here forever, holding hands with this man, breathing in and out and feeling my own heartbeat slow.
Finally, I open my eyes and look at him. His blue eyes are watchful, curious.
“Answer me this,” I say. “Is this the lamest entrée to casual sex you’ve ever had in your life?”
He grins and lets go of my hands.
“Grab the water,” he says. “I’ll meet you on the sofa.”
Then he turns and walks through the living room, leaving me to wonder what the hell just happened.