Diamonds and Toads: A Modern Fairy Tale (15 page)

She glanced at the book.
Bummer. She was
just getting to the good bit.

* * *

A half-hour later, Isadora energetically
pumped hand soap onto her sixth long swath of paper towels—it’d
taken her a few tries, but she’d finally figured out that wetting
them down with water first made them work better—as she mentally
went down the list of every Harvard guy she knew.
Who was
‘Anonymous’?
Oooh. Maybe it was Ronnie Gould. He’d always
been a wicked one. Plus, he and Sam had been roommates.

“What happened to my bound galley?” Sam said
from behind her and then slammed the book she’d been reading down
on the counter next to her.

Isadora shrugged. It was clear what had
happened to it, so even if she could have given him an answer, she
wouldn’t have.

“Coffee. Coffee’s what happened to it. I
can’t give this to a reviewer now.” The hand that he’d splayed on
the book’s top fisted. “Look, it’s clear I need to set a few ground
rules if you’re going to work for me. Number one being,
leave
everything on my desk alone.
Understood?”

She nodded.
Sure she would,
after
she’d read about the frigid oilman’s wife—who, she was pretty
sure—was none other than Mrs. Blain Johnson. Besides, it was his
fault she spilt the coffee.

“Number two, I like things clean and tidy.
Keep them that way.”

She narrowed her eyes, but nodded. What else
could she do?

“Number three, put some more clothes on.” He
thrust a pair of faded men’s pajama bottoms at her. “I’ll go by
your house and get some of your things. Unless—do you want to go
with me? Maybe try to make amends with your mother?”

No. Not a good idea.
Isadora shook her
head.

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned
against the counter. Those smoky green eyes of his swept over her
face and down her neck, stopping just above the deep vee of her
shirt’s neckline. Isadora felt heat unfurl, beginning in her belly
and moving like wild fire through her veins.

“What’s with all the silence, Isadora? Cat
got your tongue?”

No, a fairy stole it.
She
shrugged.

He grinned. There was wickedness in that
grin.

In a flash of pure insight, Isadora realized
who’d authored the book:  
Sam!
Sam was
‘Anonymous’!
Her heart pounded in her chest and her gaze darted
to the galley.
But—was it
after
they met, or
before
?
Like magnets to steel, her gaze riveted to his
groin.

She moistened her lips.

Sam unfolded his arms and grasped the counter
behind him. He shifted his weight to the other foot and cleared his
throat. “Izzy?”

Her eyes flew back to his.
Oh shit. Take
me home.
“Make me come.”

* * *

“A guy doesn’t even rate a kiss first?” Sam
swept his hand behind Izzy’s head and pulled her into him. She
gasped and he swooped, melding his mouth to hers before she could
take another breath. He turned her so that her backside was pressed
tight against the counter and her pelvis and torso were pressed
tight against his, he dragged her jaw open wide with his thumbs and
delved deep into the warm recesses of her mouth with his
tongue.

A strangled mewl ushered up from her throat
and he groaned in answer.

This was the kiss he’d never had the courage
to give her when they were younger. This was the kiss that a man
gave a woman he intended to have at his mercy. This was the kiss
that a man gave a woman when he was about to take her to bed.

He’d known the exact moment Izzy had put it
all together in her mind. And now she wanted a taste of the dark
side. Fine. He’d give it to her. Why not? It’s what he wanted,
too—had been wanting, in fact, for eight long years.

He could do this. He could fuck her and never
let on how much he still cared. Sure he could.

But first, he’d make her want him with the
same gut-wrenching fire that he wanted her.

And that would take more time.

He dropped his palms to her shoulders and
broke the kiss. “I’m going to make you come, Izzy, I promise.
You’re going to come so hard and so long, you’ll lose
consciousness.” She blinked up at him, her pupils as big and as
dark as sloe berries in autumn. He traced his tongue over her
swollen lips then said, “I’m going to take my time about it,
though. Starting when I return.” He gave her one last quick peck
and then released her. “I’ll be back by lunchtime—make us some
burgers, will you? The meat’s in the freezer and the buns are in
the bread basket.”

He strode as quickly as he could out of the
kitchen and left through the sliding glass door before he could
talk himself out of his plan and take her right there on the hard,
cold vinyl floor.

Not the way to go, if you wanted to maintain
control—and distance—in a sexual relationship.

* * *

The
snick!
of the sliding glass door
shutting snapped Isadora out of her stupor.
Oh shit. She was in
deep trouble now. Or—maybe not. He had a way of mastering her sex
drive that no other man had ever been able to do before.
She
picked up the bound galley and absently kicked the discarded pajama
bottoms out of her path as she strolled into the living room and
sat down in the overstuffed chair. After flicking the reading lamp
on and thumbing to the chapter about the frigid wife, she settled
back to read.

An hour later, she was convinced that Sam had
not been exaggerating. And maybe, just maybe, that was a very good
thing for her. Or could be.
If
 he really was able do
for her what he’d done for that poor oilman’s wife.

Her ‘little problem’ with sexual release was
something she’d been hiding from everyone—not just the men she’d
slept with—but
everyone
, even her friends, since her second
time doing it. The first time, she really hadn’t minded spilling
the beans—hardly any girl had an orgasm their first time, everyone
knew that. But when Chas and she had done it the second time and
she still hadn’t felt the vaguest need to cry out, or send him
deeper into her, or do any of the other outrageous things the
romance novels depicted, well, it had ended up being the first time
she’d ever faked it. She’d had to. Chas wouldn’t stop until he’d
gotten some kind of response out of her.

So, she’d mimicked the heroine from the
latest book she’d read and moaned, thrashed about, and cried out at
the top of her lungs. And then he had, too.

Yes, she’d learned a very valuable lesson
that day: Men really liked making women come.

And now—after, well, not
millions
, as
she’d blurted to Sam, but more men than she could name—she was
finally going to give Sam a whack at her.

* * *

Sam dropped the carry-on bag onto the floor
next to the coffee table. It was stuffed full with outer- and
under- garments, plus several items from her vanity. Izzy’s mother
had been a bitch—not surprising—and given him leave to take only
what could fit in the bag.

“Izzy?” There was a distinct smell of burned
beef in the air. Not a good sign. Even though he was getting evil
gratification out of having her do chores for him, he still didn’t
want his home destroyed. He walked toward the kitchen. “Iz? You in
there?”

He stopped in the entryway and stared. Not
one dish, utensil, or towel it seemed had been left unsoiled. The
door to the microwave hung wide open and the charred remnants of a
ground meat explosion caked every interior surface.

Okay. Cooking—off the list.
Sam
whirled around and headed through the living room and down the
hallway. “IZZY! WHERE
ARE
YOU?”

He rapped a knuckle on the bathroom door. A
second later, it swung open and a distinctly damp-eyed, disgruntled
female emerged.

“What happened to your arm?—let me see.” He
took hold of her wrist and brought the cold cloth away that she was
holding against the inner side of it. “That’s a nasty burn.
Here,”—he turned her around and headed them both back into the
bathroom—“I’ve got some salve and bandages in the medicine
cabinet.” He swept her up and set her on the countertop. “You
hungry? I can call for a pizza in a minute.”

Izzy gave him what he was coming to recognize
as her signature answer for everything—a shrug—but she added a nod
this time.

“Good.” He pressed down the edges of the
square bandage and then lifted her off the counter “And afterward,”
he said against her ear as he slid her down his torso, “we can take
another step or two toward bliss.” Then he smacked her on the left
butt cheek, set her on her feet and walked out.

* * *

Isadora found Sam in the kitchen—whistling!—a
few minutes later.

“The pizza should be here in about half an
hour,” he said over his shoulder and then turned back to continue
scrubbing the gunk off the microwave.

She wandered over and idly picked up the
spray bottle he was using.
‘409’
was on the front in big
purple letters.
Oh. She’d heard of this. And it certainly would
have been useful this morning.
She noticed that he was using
some sort of sponge as well.

Her second foray this afternoon into ‘The
Kitchen Zone’—as she’d begun to think of it—had not turned out as
well as her first. Even with the
YouTube
video. And then,
when the meat blew up, she’d fried her arm on the blasted electric
stove. The freakin’ circle-y thing was still black—not red like in
the video—how was she to know it was hot already??

“Did you see the carry-on next to the coffee
table? Unfortunately, that’s all the stuff your mother would let me
bring to you—sorry.”

Isadora whirled around and headed into the
living room. She snatched up the bag and almost broke the zipper
getting it open. She tore into it then, flinging sports bras,
panties, capris and shorts everywhere. When she got to the bottom
and found one pair of athletic shoes, her brush and a small bag of
makeup, her knees gave out and she withered onto the sofa.
Not
one single designer shoe, purse, or evening dress. Nothing for a
MassArt fashion design grad. Nada. He’d brought her only crap from
the floor of her closet.
Isadora leaned forward and put her
face in her hands.
Oh, dear God. I really am screwed, aren’t
I?

“Want a Bud?” Sam called from the
kitchen.

She lifted her head and ground her teeth.
No, I do
NOT
want a Bud!

“No. But I DO want to fuck!”

Damn.

* * *

Sam gripped the edge of the kitchen counter
and squeezed his eyes shut. It took every ounce of willpower he had
not to stride in there and plow into her, the way she clearly
wanted him to do.

“LAT—
ahem—
LATER!” he called back. Much
later, in fact. But she didn’t need to know that, now did she?

* * *

Were they going to do it now?
Isadora
wondered. Sam had cleared the table out on the deck of all remnants
of their meal and now he was leading her by her hand through the
living room and down the hall toward his bedroom.

She frantically tried to remember how he’d
described his sessions—his word, not hers—with the frigid wife, but
the adrenaline pumping through her system was affecting her
synapses. All she could recall at this moment was that the woman
had had an appendectomy scar that she’d been embarrassed for him to
see.

Once in his bedroom—it was larger than she’d
expected. And the bed. The bed was massive—he surprised her and
stopped in front of a carved oak door. Swinging it open, he said,
“Jacuzzi?”

To Isadora, this seemed like a last-minute
reprieve. She nodded her head.

His answering smile had the devil in it. But
when he placed his hand in the curve of her back and urged her
forward, she went without hesitation.

She didn’t really know what to do with
herself as she waited for him to fill the tub and turn the jets on,
so she studied the layout of the room, nosed around in a couple of
his drawers (he wasn’t paying attention anyway—so why not?)

It was then that she found his stash of
condoms.
Oh my freakin’ God. He hadn’t been joking about the
9-inch thing. Why hadn’t he said anything about THAT in his book?
Seemed like pertinent information to her. Real pertinent. Super
pertinent. EXTREMELY pertinent.

Isadora forced air into her lungs.
Okay.
Big is good. Everyone said so. Hey—maybe that was the problem—maybe
she just hadn’t been with a guy that was big enough.
She shot a
glance at Sam from the corner of her eye.
Well, sometime tonight
she was pretty sure she was going to find out.
 

* * *

Sam reached across Izzy and picked up the
beer he’d left there a minute ago before they got in the Jacuzzi.
As he brought it back toward him, he brushed his arm over the tips
of her breasts. An electric shock traveled straight to his groin
when he heard her suck in her breath.

Tilting the bottle of brew back, he took a
long swallow and then set it back down in the exact place he’d
taken it from. This time, instead of touching her breasts, he
settled his other arm over her shoulder, followed the shape of her
ear with his index finger and nuzzled into her hair. “You smell
good. Like springtime.”

Her breathing was becoming labored—so was
his, truth be told. How the hell he was going to keep this
provocative, but unfulfilled, he didn’t know. His cock was so hard
it ached. But he was still determined to try. Even if the
naked-seduction-in-the-Jacuzzi idea was turning out to be more
tantalizing for him than he’d expected.

Sam cleared his throat. “Be careful not to
get your bandage wet.” He lifted her injured wrist to his lips and
nibbled the tender skin on either edge of the dressing. When she
began to tremble, he repeated the exercise, this time, going
further still, up her arm to the sensitive place inside the crook
of her elbow. He tickled it with his tongue and she squirmed on her
seat.