Getting Even

T
hey say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but if you ask me, that’s a load of bull. Hands down, that gold-lined path travels through his libido.

I should know. Right now, I’m practically dying of embarrassment as I sit in a north Atlanta restaurant with the man of my dreams, Adam Hart. I’m trying to look nonchalant beside him in our booth, sipping a margarita through a straw, while Adam has his hand between my legs. His fingers tickle my skin as they inch farther up my thighs.

“Adam,” I admonish playfully as his fingers skirt my panties. “I’m trying to have a serious conversation.”

“Don’t I look serious to you?”

He
does
look serious—which is exactly the problem. He is entirely too serious about this naughty bit of foreplay. “Sweetheart, you know how much I love this, but—”

“What, this?”

My eyelids flutter as he strokes my nub.

“Mmm,” I moan softly. Then look up in horror as the waiter appears at our table. My face flames, and I wonder if my pale brown skin registers any blush of my embarrassment. I squeeze my legs together, but that does nothing to stop Adam’s fingers.

“Have you decided what you’d like?” the waiter asks. I’m not sure if there’s a knowing glint in his eye. If not, he must think Adam and I are so in love that we can’t bear to be physically apart from each other. Why else would we be sharing the same side of a booth, practically glued at the hip?

“Um,” I begin. I haven’t even looked at the menu. “I think we need a few more minutes.”

“I know what I want,” Adam says. He’s looking at me though, not at the waiter, and I want to smack him. No, that’s a lie. I want to take him outside and get busy with him in the back seat of his Mercedes SUV. I really do enjoy Adam’s obvious lust for me. I’m just not comfortable with how much he likes to display it in public.

“New York steak,” Adam continues. “Rare. I like it red.”

“I’ll have the same,” I say, hoping to hell that I’m not blushing. “Medium well.”

“Rice or baked potato?”

“Rice,” both Adam and I respond.

The waiter scribbles notes on a pad. “That comes with soup or salad—”

“Two house salads to start,” I interject, cutting off the waiter. “And an order of garlic bread. Also, a half liter of Chardonnay.”

“Make it a bottle,” Adam says.

My eyes meet his in surprise. His gaze is smoky, and as he bites down on his bottom lip, I feel an excited shiver dance across my shoulders. I know what he wants. To get me drunk so I’m more likely to be less inhibited.

I wonder what he wants me to try
this
time.

“That’s everything?” the waiter asks.

I have all but forgotten about the waiter. I look up at the college kid and grin. “That’s plenty.”

Thank the Lord, the waiter turns and walks away. He doesn’t know me, but still I let out a relieved breath. The reason I like to come here is that it’s far from the Buckhead neighborhood where Adam and I live. If I get caught doing something scandalous here, at least no one will know who I am. And because it’s a Monday night, this place isn’t as busy as it would be on the weekend.

“Now.” Adam smiles at me as his fingers explore my nether region. “Where were we?”

I push his hand away, feeling slightly annoyed at his one-track mind, considering everything we need to discuss. “Adam, seriously. We need to talk.”

He pouts a little but finally relents. “All right.” He sits back against the booth. “Let’s talk.”

Now I smile from ear to ear. I am absolutely crazy about Adam, but it’s possible, if only slightly, that I’m even more crazy about our upcoming wedding.

You see, I’m almost thirty, and for a while I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get married or die a spinster. What self-respecting woman still uses the term
spinster,
you ask? You haven’t met my high-society, Black-American Princess friends. Not to mention my mother, who has been dreaming of my wedding since the time I was in her womb. In most respects I have a fairly cushy life, but if I don’t get married, I’ll never live that one down.

But I
am
getting married. In six weeks, I will become Mrs. Adam Hart. For the past year, I’ve been busy planning every detail of our lavish wedding. As far as I’m concerned, it’s going to be the most spectacular wedding Atlanta society has ever seen.

Notice I didn’t say “Adam and I” have been planning the wedding. Unfortunately, Adam is a man—which is to say that he’s not the least bit interested in the intricate details that go into pulling off a wedding as elaborate as ours will be. He thinks the big day is more of a fairy tale for the bride, and I can’t say he’s wrong.

But I have to tell you, there’s nothing remotely fun about planning the fairy-tale wedding. It’s a lot of headaches and hard work. And there are things I need to know now, considering our big day is fast approaching.

I take my planner out of my Gucci tote and open it. “Diana needs to meet with us this weekend to go over all the wedding details. I made a tentative appointment for 10:00 a.m. on Saturday. Will that work for you?”

“Sure.”

“I know we had all the colors pretty much picked out, but I’m going back and forth over the bridesmaid dresses. I found out Rebecca Morrison’s bridesmaids will be wearing buttercup yellow, and considering our weddings are two weeks apart—” I stop when Adam begins stroking the inside of my wrist. “Are you listening to me?”

“You want to change the colors?”

“I’m considering it, yes.”

“Go ahead.”

“But I know you and the groomsmen have already picked out your tuxes.” Not to mention that the dresses have already been made and it will be a great expense for the designer to make new ones.

“So we’ll change the color of the flower we wear on our lapel.” He shrugs nonchalantly, as if to say I’m making a big deal out of nothing.

Maybe I am, but this wedding business is stressful. I decide to leave the subject of colors alone until our meeting with the wedding planner. But, there is another pressing matter. “You know how in the reply cards we gave people the chance to say whether they wanted red snapper or duck?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, the phone calls have started. People are wondering why there isn’t a beef option. It’s like they expect this to be some sort of backyard buffet instead of a five-star wedding. They’re driving me and my mother nuts, but now I’m wondering if we shouldn’t have a beef entrée as an option, as well.” Rolling my eyes, I groan.

“How hard will it be to have beef?”

“I don’t know. I guess not that hard. As long as we get the count a couple weeks before the wedding.” Diana has arranged a fantastic lineup of chefs for our big day—straight from Commander’s Palace in New Orleans. “But maybe we should put our foot down. There’ll be eight courses. No one’s gonna starve.”

“If it’s no big deal,” Adam begins, covering my hands with his, “then we’ll have a beef entrée.”

“Are you sure, honey? What if it’s more complicated?”

“But we want everyone happy. Let’s have the variety. It’ll cost more, but that’s not a concern.”

“No. No, you’re right.” I relax in my seat. My father’s not worried about the cost, so why am I? “I do want everyone to be happy.”
So happy that they’ll talk about our wedding for months after the grand event….

“I don’t know why you’re getting so stressed. Seems like everything’s in order.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You haven’t been doing the planning.”

I give Adam a look of reproof, and in response he plants a soft kiss on my lips. “You know I love you for it.”

“You’d better.”

“I promise you, our honeymoon will be the perfect reward for all your hard work.”

Right now, the honeymoon seems like some mythical fantasy that will never come to pass. “When will you tell me where we’re going?”

“When we get there.”

I should be excited, but I’m not. I think the idea of the honeymoon will really excite me once I know that all the kinks in our wedding plans are ironed out.

Adam releases my hands to reach for my margarita. He samples it and as I watch him, I can’t help thinking how truly hot he is. He’s six foot two, has closely cropped hair and perfect golden-brown skin. Adam is the kind of guy who commands attention whenever he walks into a room. Even here, at this eatery, I’ve seen the surreptitious and even brazen glances some of the other women have thrown his way.

But I’m not worried. They can look all they like. Adam isn’t going anywhere. He has no need to. I more than please my man in the bedroom.

As an attractive sister gives Adam a lingering look, I place a hand on his leg under the table.

“Mmm,” is his soft response.

“I love you, Adam Hart,” I whisper.

“I love you, Claudia Fisher.”

“I know.” I blow out a huff of air. “That’s why it’s been killing me to keep this from you.” Adam looks at me in alarm, and I realize how he has construed my words. “It’s not bad news,” I quickly assure him. “In fact, it’s the
best
news.”

“You’ve got my attention.”

Excitement bubbles up inside me. What I’m about to tell Adam is absolutely
the
most thrilling news. The perfect touch to make our wedding forever memorable—
and
the talk of Atlanta.

“Remember I told you I had a surprise for you?”

“Yes,” Adam replies.

“I wasn’t planning to tell you about this until the rehearsal dinner, but I’m so excited, I can’t wait that long.”

“What is it, baby?”

“You’re never going to believe who’ll be singing at our wedding. I’m so blown away by this, I could just
die!
”

Adam’s eyes are on fire with curiosity. “Tell me.”

“Babyface! Can you believe it?”

Adam plants a serious lip-lock on me, tongue and all, and I don’t even care. When we finally break for air, he asks, “How? When?”

“My cousin came through for me.” Morgan Fisher, one of my many cousins, is an executive at Palm Records in Los Angeles. He knows Babyface personally, but that wasn’t a guarantee that he’d be available to sing at the wedding.

“Oh, man.” Adam smiles from ear to ear. “
The
Babyface?”

“The one and only. Isn’t it fabulous?”

“
You’re
fabulous.” Adam’s tone changes, grows deeper. I can read what he’s thinking in his eyes. He wants to get me naked.

The waiter appears with our wine. He opens the bottle, pours some wine into a glass, and Adam samples it. “Very good,” Adam tells the waiter.

When we are alone again, Adam raises his wineglass. “To us,” he says. “And a very bright future.”

“I’ll drink to that,” I say, then clink my glass against my fiancé’s, knowing that I am the luckiest girl in the world.

Again, Adam slips a hand between my legs and says, “Come on, baby. Let me make you come.”

“Adam…” I protest weakly.

But he’s already stroking me, with much more determination, and against my own resolve, I am getting very wet.

“Do you know how much I love it when you’re wet like this?” he asks hotly against my ear. He slips a finger inside me and wiggles it around. “Let me taste you. Please, baby…”

I moan softly. “Right here?”

“God, yes.”

He pulls his hand away from me and lifts it to his face. He inhales the scent of my essence, groaning his delight, then slowly puts the finger in his mouth. It’s enough to almost make me orgasm.

“Damn, I love you,” he utters, then slips his hand between my legs once more. Now he goes in for the kill, putting two fingers inside me while stroking my nub with his thumb.

“How do you always do this to me?” I ask. “Make me so fucking horny?”

His movements are faster, and I’m sure people know what’s going on. How could they not?

Oh, damn. I’m so close…

I close my legs around his hand and bury my face against his shoulder. “That’s it, baby. You know I own you.”

And then I come. And come. And come.

I bite down on Adam’s shoulder. It’s an effort to keep any sound from escaping my mouth. I pray anyone within earshot only thinks I’m laughing.

“You two must be celebrating something.”

I whip my gaze up to see the waiter standing at our table. Adam keeps a firm hand wrapped around my waist so I can’t move apart from him. His other hand is still in my panties.

“Um, yes,” I answer shakily. I’m still light-headed from the aftermath of my orgasm. “We’re getting married.”

“Ah,” the waiter coos and places the garlic bread on the table. “Congratulations.”

Only when the waiter disappears do I dare move away from Adam. He grins at me, victorious, knowing he has conquered me sexually once again.

And I can’t help it. I grin back at him.

I love this man.

A little over an hour later—at least I think it’s an hour later (I can’t be sure, since I had the lion’s share of the wine)—I am holding on tight to Adam’s arm as he’s driving along the 285 perimeter around Atlanta. It seems we’ve been going around and around for ages, but I could be wrong, considering my head’s in a fog. I can barely keep my eyes open, but when Adam veers suddenly to the right, I perk up. I see that he is taking an exit several miles from my home.

“Hey,” I say.

He squeezes my hand. “Don’t worry, babe.”

“Where are we going?”

He glances at me and flashes a playful grin. “You had a surprise for me. Now it’s my turn to surprise you.”

I eye Adam warily. He’s not big on romantic surprises. Besides, what on earth can he be surprising me with in the middle of nowhere? Unless he’s going to…

As the answer hits me, I am almost sobered with the excitement.

“Adam,” I squeal, “you didn’t!” Of course, I’m hoping he did. I look around expectantly, hoping to see large suburban houses with sprawling lawns and aged oaks any second now. I thought for sure we’d stay in Buckhead, but maybe he’s decided that we’ll live in Duluth.

But as we continue to drive, the industrial landscape doesn’t change, and I’m a bit confused. This area isn’t only industrial, it’s fairly run-down. Not exactly the neighborhood where Adam would buy a house.