Impulses (13 page)

“Are you coming, Samantha?” His rough voice snaps me out of my preoccupied state.

My eyes widen as I peek up at his gorgeous face, remembering how coarse the stubble that coats his strong, alluring jawline and around his mouth was on my body, those perfect pink lips and that sexy, silken lock of hair that rests on the side of his brow––he really is too handsome to be legal. He points at the waiting elevator and I watch as his eyes cloud into dark pools of uneasiness. An indistinct chuckle passes through my apologetic smile and the sound seems to dissolve his unease and replaces it with unmasked mirth.

Confined and alone in the elevator with, Mr. Sex-on-Legs, the desire, anticipation and lustful frustration debunks itself once again in haste, the intensity growing and fusing in the pits of my stomach. I feel it pool between my legs as I squeeze my thighs together to dissipate the gradual throbbing and tension from deep within. I attempt to keep my eyes fixated on the ground, but temptation prospers and my gaze wanders subtly up his body.

He looks utterly delectable in his azure suit with razor-sharp creases down his pants and a crisp white linen shirt with the collar button undone. I take in a deep breath and welcome his seductive, heady scent as it strokes my senses and adds to the profound quivering mass of my body. I am never going to survive tonight.

He looks down at me from the corner of his eyes and smirks as I continue to assess him with my wandering gaze, and for the first time ever, I feel a little embarrassed––like I have just been caught masturbating. I feel my cheeks flush and I grasp my lip between my teeth to halt my girlish overwrought chuckle.

His eyes are smouldering, magnetic and full of promise––an intoxicating combination when displayed upon a man this…beautiful. “You really do look stunning, Samantha.”

Withdrawing from the tide of self-conscious and disconcertment that hangs heavily over me, I look down at the floor. “Hey,” he hums, and I answer him with a full-on appraisal, permitting his beautiful profile to obliterate my callowness: his straight narrow nose, his penetrative, dark brown eyes, and the crease of his brow as he raises it in a believe-me-and-accept-the-damn-compliment look.

His expression thaws me and I concede to his words. He traces his thumb across my mouth and it takes all of my strength not to part my lips and taste his flesh. The left corner of his lips lifts into a gladdened smirk.

“Much better.”

The elevator comes to a standstill, and the doors glide open with ease. Hayden proffers his hand, and I focus on it evasively as though it is an additional limb, while desperately striving to reel in the disgusted expression I display.

Last night’s happenings piece themselves together and forms a tableau for my mind’s eye. The warmth and suppleness of his hand as he weaved his fingers through mine, tracing a path to my wrist with a feather light touch. That was sensual and passionate––an outlet for the frustration that had built up to beyond breaking point––
this
however…holding hands, is so…so personal…so…affectionate.

I stand at the threshold, secretly cringing at the sentiment behind this guileless gesture. Skimming my focus from his hand up to his features, I briefly shut my eyes to conceal the discomfort and the unfamiliarity of what he is extending to me.

When my lids flutter open, I am met with his heavy scrutiny. Cocking his head, his expression is pained and bewildered. He runs his hand through his hair and sighs.

Oh, Hayden…I’m out of my depth here, I don’t do this.
Hayden withdrawals his hand, and curls his arm steadily.

Smiling with a degree of understanding and gratitude, my eyes teem with apologetic indications as I accept and entwine my arm with his.

“Where are you parked?” my voice is soft and gentle as we stride arm-in-arm leisurely onto the street. I peer up at him and see his mouth curling with secret knowledge as he points to the silver Aston Martin that we are deliberately approaching. My jaw drops and my eyes widen with sheer incredulity. “No way is that your car.”

Hayden pushes the fob and opens up the passenger door for me to enter. I shake my head unfathomably.

“After you, Mademoiselle,” he feigns a French accent. And I cannot quash my delight any longer. My tensed facial muscles relax and I burst into a long overdue, face-splitting grin as I lower myself into the sumptuous leather seat of the car which is worth more than my entire apartment.

The coldness of the leather seat against my back is unexpected and I am suddenly jolted. My body explodes in goose bumps as I adjust my seatbelt––and my position––to fight the shock of the red iceberg my back rests against.

“You ready, beautiful?” he asks while he clicks the seatbelt into place.

Aware that he will be displeased, I combat the urge to look away and muster enough strength to offer a weak, vacillating grin as Hayden presses the ignition, and pulls out into the Saturday night, San Francisco traffic.

“Impressive car you have here, Mr. Wentworth.” I scan at the surroundings of the vehicle. It makes my Honda look puny and puts it to shame. The door is embellished in spicy red leather. The console is encased within the tortoiseshell framing, the dashboard coated in the same red leather material. I study him as he focuses on the road ahead, deliberating how much he has achieved; he owns San Francisco’s illustrious law-firm which has a prestigious record withstanding, the car…and he is still so young.

“Thank you, Miss Kennedy. I think so, too.” He offers a brief glance in my direction and defers to a small, conceited smirk.

“So, you’ve been to my apartment twice today…I’m guessing you either have time to waste with travel…or you don’t live too far away.”

“I’m at The Paramount. So no, Miss Kennedy––” he glances up at my again. “I’m not that far away.”

Fuck!
I sense that recurring tightening coursing through my hips and surges exacting down to my sex, making every muscle spasm with delight. The Paramount? Fuck, he really does have it all, and it’s a mere a fifteen minute drive. I never land myself in these situations ––rule number two,
don’t let anyone you have a sexual encounter with find out your address.
Trust me to fuck that up on a spur of the moment passion fest and then realize––he only lives down the fucking road from me.

But for a passing moment, I find myself disregarding my second rule and I focus upon the notion that the opportunities for sexual rendezvous’ are now more accessible.

Hmm…interesting.

We pull into a vacant space opposite 1300. Hayden turns off the ignition and shifts in his seat so he is facing me.

I pull my attention away from my fingers that rest in my lap, and meet his enthralling eyes. I feel so confused. I was fine last night after we…well…it was amazing. The burden of my desire for this man had dissipated and I left sated, my hunger relieved, my ache quelled. But tonight with our proximity, time standing still for us as we lose ourselves in the depths of hungering and craving eyes once more, it’s brought that desire back full-fold.

What is it about this man? Why am I experiencing these aches again? I understand what my body physically wants, but I don’t and can’t understand what my emotional mind is trying to tell me.

He uplifts his right hand and inches it towards me. He traces his thumb over my lower lip. I gasp sharply and freeze, holding the air captive in my lungs. Feeling tense, I screw my eyes shut, feeling tears pool behind my eyelids. Why is he doing this? I feel uneasy with his compliments––his tactile and demonstrative ways. We have fucked already; he shouldn’t need…or want to touch me like this…with this warmth.

For God’s sake, Samantha, you are a total contradiction…you say you want to feel his touch again, but then that makes you uncomfortable. Make up your fucking mind,
my subconscious scolds me, and rightly so. She’s right, I do crave his touch…but craving something that I have already had, with the same person who has already given what I initially wanted…I have never experienced that need before. And his touch…
Oh, his touch
…there is so much meaning––so much sentiment behind it. That is what I find disconcerting––the level of benevolence he holds towards me, especially after how we left things back in the office.

No longer feeling Hayden’s touch against my lip, my eyelids strain open and I cautiously release my breath. I’m apprehensive under his scrutiny, like a zoo animal being laughed at by children on a fieldtrip. And for some unknown reason, I feel that he is subconsciously labeling me, seeing the damage that annihilated the person I once was as I surrendered to the person I now am.
I’m not diseased, or a fucking act in a freak show, I bet you’re not perfect, Mr. Aston-Fucking-Martin.

His mouth quirks upward, his deep brown eyes glimmer with wounded pride? Compassion? I have no idea, but for a brief moment as I gaze into them, I feel as though he understands me, and my paranoid musings disintegrate before me into a pile of blackened ash.

“Wait here,” he whispers before exiting the car. I watch him as he takes long strides around the hood and opens my door. “Mademoiselle,” he holds his hand out gallantly.

Nipping at my lower lip, I snort at his playfulness and place my French manicured fingertips graciously into his large, smooth palm.

“Thank you.” My voice is small and soft as he assists me out of the sumptuous leather. Slipping my fingertips free from his clutch, I smooth my dress over my hips, removing any gathering or creases the material may comprise of.

“You are more than welcome, beautiful.” He raises my left hand, and places a chaste kiss on the back of my knuckles and my heart ceases in my chest. Before I can attempt to pull my hand away, he halts me and guides it under the crook of his arm instead.

Hayden leads us across the street to an array of overlarge, floor-to-ceiling windows. We approach a sandy-golden colored entrance, with a golden light shining with abundant elegance from above the door, like an over-painting light in a museum. The exterior is of white and gold marble and a single fern stands beside a pillar at the doorway. A black sign above illuminates 1300 in a blinding, white light.

My arm resuming its place entwined around Hayden’s, we make our way inside and to the lectern. I find myself browsing one thing to the next. The light fittings, the table places, the thick, luxurious velvet drapes that hang classily from the oversized windows. There are photos on the walls ranging from Nina Simone and Marvin Gaye, to Miles Davis and Kenny G. I look up at Hayden who is watching me in wonder, his eyes brimming with assurance. I continue to peruse my surroundings, while Hayden speaks to the tall, smartly attired, black haired maître d'.

The gentleman escorts us to our table, in the privacy of their one and only booth.
Very intimate,
my subconscious mutters in approval, but I knock her back in a desperate need not to overthink things further.

For me, the romantic ambiance is intimidating; the amber lighting is reflected off the wall of mirrors, and the dark wooden tables are highly polished, complimenting the cherry wood panels adorning the lower half of the wall.

“I will give you a few moments, sir.” The maître d' bows at his dismissal then returns back to his post to greet another couple.

“What is it with you and leather?” I tease, lowering myself into the leather pew.

Hayden extends one of the menus to me, which I accept with gratitude and begin to examine.

“What can I say,” he shrugs and cocks his head. A salacious grin slowly develops. “It’s comfortable, and”––he clears his throat––“sensual,” he finishes in practically a whisper. Seemingly embarrassed, he focuses his attention back to his menu.

I snort, and shake my head frivolously.

With his face buried in the menu, Hayden pins me with just his eyes––holy, fuck, the intensity of that glare has all my breath expelled from my body and renders me squirming against the leather of my seat. “I’m glad you find me amusing, Miss Kennedy.” And for the first time all night, we mirror each other’s expressions…genuinely.

We sit in silence, focusing on our meals––moving food around the plate, taking a bite here and there before peeking up at each other, and offering the occasional wary smiles as Nina Simone begins crooning in the background about
Feeling Good.

Hayden takes another bite of the braised, boneless beef short rib, with crispy onion rings and chive mashed potatoes––and by the sounds of his appreciative groaning––he makes it abundantly clear that he’s enjoying it.

I can’t stifle my little smirks and secret giggles. I am still working my way through my pan roasted Colombo spiced diver scallop, with coconut braised lentils and smoked ham hock. I’m full, but the portion on my plate doesn’t seem to be shrinking.

I am tortured by the deafening silence that resonates in our booth. I thought the awkward silence on the phone earlier was bad enough, but this is excruciating. I recall the ‘possible topic choices’ that Jessie had committed to my memory.

“So…do you have any hobbies or interests?” I hesitate, taking a welcoming sip of my chardonnay to wash down my latest bite.

“I enjoy rock-climbing and hiking. I prefer to be outdoors with nature––but um…I haven’t been able to indulge in them for a while.”

“Why not? Work?” I interject, and immediately regret it.

“No,” he gasps, “when you participate in those kinds of hobbies, you have to have the correct––” he shakes his head slowly; he sucks air between his teeth, striving to find the correct word. “––Attitude towards them…complete focus, unfortunately, I have not been able to maintain the level of focus that is required for such things recently. So, I make up for it at the gym and workout until I reach sheer exhaustion––I can relax when I have no energy left to think.” He offers a sorrowful smile, as though he’s contemplating some painful memory. And I immediately wish I could go back to the awkward silence that was bathed over us a few moments ago.

Peering down at my plate, I continue to move the remaining food around before setting my cutlery upon it.

“Samantha, I um…” I tip my head up and study his despondent expression, his eyes forlorn, his brow furrowed. He looks adorable with the little V that forms between his dark eyebrows. He dashes his tongue across his lips before continuing. “I want you to know that…what happened last night, with us at the office––” I reach for my glass and take a gulp of the chilled golden liquid. “I don’t make a habit out of it. I have never had a
one night stand;
they are not something that appeals to me.”