Just a Number (24 page)

“Yeah,” she agrees quietly. “That’s what I gathered.”

“Did he say anything else?”

Through my periphery, I see her shake her head. “No. That was about it.”

“I think the fact that he didn’t mention me by name bodes well for his not really knowing,” I try to assure her, even though I’m not so sure; I remember the look in his eyes when he walked into the kitchen that day.

“Yeah, it’s always a possibility,” Amelia concurs. “But I can’t get the way he was watching us out of my he—”

“Listen,” I interrupt, bringing her hand to my lips and pressing a kiss to her knuckles, “you’re probably reading too much into it. I’m sure he was just speaking in a general sense. He’d have said something to me, too, if he had everything figured out.” I chuckle. “Not to mention, there’s no way Julia wouldn’t figure it out if he knew.”

Amelia releases a soft sigh of relief, relaxing back in her seat. “You’re probably right.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I tease, leaning close to her.

Unable to contain her laughter, Amelia reaches over and shoves me lightly. “You hard of hearing?”

“I’ve just never heard those words before,” I tell her. It’s the truth, but I’m really just teasing her in hopes of lightening the mood so close to home. “I think I like the sound of them.”

“Well, if that’s all I have to do to get you excited…” Seduction haloes her every word; she’s playing a dangerous game, but thankfully the sign we’ve just passed says we’ll be in the city within a half hour.

Not a moment too soon.

We try to fill the remaining time in the car with topics as far away from sex as possible. Sure, my thoughts still occasionally drift to those of a sexual nature, but so do Amelia’s—she doesn’t admit to this out loud, though. I can tell by the way her breathing turns shallow, or how she nibbles on her bottom lip, and even by how often she shifts in her seat, pressing her legs together tightly.

When we do finally arrive at my building, I park the car in its usual spot before grabbing our bags. Amelia and I ride the elevator to my floor, and I’m somewhat glad I’ve got my hands full with our luggage, because the way Amelia eyes me from her spot across from me has my blood burning with my desire for her. As we walk the hall to my door, Amelia digs out her copy of the keys so I don’t have to fumble with the bags that I insisted on carrying for her, and she lets us inside.

The second the door is closed behind us, every reason to stay apart vanishes, and I drop the bags to the floor as Amelia rushes into my arms. Her lips are desperate against mine, her tongue firm and insistent as she weaves her fingers into my hair and holds me close. I take a step forward, trying to navigate our way down the hall and toward my bedroom, but we’re clumsy in our need, tripping and stumbling over each other’s feet and running into the walls.

Frustrated and horny, I turn us, forcing Amelia’s back against the wall as I pull her shirt up her body and toss it to the ground. She’s panting when I break our kiss to remove her shirt, so I kiss a path along her jaw and down her neck, nipping the warm skin along her shoulder as I unbutton her jeans and slip my hand inside to find her wet and wanting.

She moans, the breathy sound vibrating beneath my skin until it reaches my growing erection. My hand continues to move between her legs, and she meets my every stroke with a thrust of her hips. My name falls past her lips, soft and airy, before she places her hands on the waist of my jeans and undoes them, pushing them over my hips until they fall down my legs and pool around my ankles. Her soft, talented hand slips behind the fabric of my boxers, her grip firm and working with purpose.

Unable to gain a full range of motion behind her jeans, I pull back, hook my fingers in her pants at the hips and tug them down. Unlike mine, Amelia’s jeans take a little effort to remove since they’re so damn tight—not that I’m complaining; they fit her body like a glove or a second skin, and I love looking at her ass in them.

With a laugh, she kicks her feet free of her shoes and jeans, moving her focus to ridding my body of my shirt. Her hands explore the planes of my chest while mine thread into the lengths of her hair and bring her lips back to mine. This kiss is less urgent, but just as passionate as I take her bottom lip between mine and trace my tongue over it. As we deepen the kiss, my hands slide down over Amelia’s arms, and I feel the goosebumps prickle up beneath the pads of my fingers as I move to ensnare her hips and palm her ass over her little black panties.

“Take me,” she pleads against my lips. “Right here.”

My urgency to make love to Amelia returns in an instant as I all but tear her panties from her body and push my boxers down. I grab her hips, pulling her forward as I slide my hands down until I’m gripping her ass firmly. She gasps when I pick her up quickly, and her tits bounce behind her black lace bra as I position her legs around me and enter her. We moan simultaneously as the sensation rolls through us, Amelia’s arms wrapping around my neck and pulling my face toward her neck. After a minute, our hips find a rhythm, and we work toward the mutual goal of our release. The sound of our skin slapping together as I increase my speed makes the pulse in my erection grow, and I soon find myself balancing along the precipice of my orgasm.

 The volume of Amelia’s cries mount, jolted and bouncing off the walls of my condo, as I work to bring her to the edge I’m barely teetering on. “Owen,” she cries. “Oh, god, Owen.” Over and over again, she says my name, and I feel the hold on my climax beginning to waver.

Keeping one hand securely on her ass, my other climbs the soft curves of her body to her right breast. My fingers dip behind the lace, pulling the cup down and exposing the supple skin to me, and I palm it, manipulating her taut nipple and making her arch her back toward me.

“Oh!” she shouts, her fingers twisting almost painfully into my hair. This is all the encouragement I need, and I crush my lips to hers again as I continue to pinch and tweak her breast while thrusting into her manically.

I pray she’s close, because my vision starts to blur around the edges, and every square inch of my skin hums with the anticipation of climax. When I feel Amelia’s body tense against mine, I know she’s there, and I double my efforts, pushing my hips up into her and squeezing her breast a little harder. It doesn’t take long before her legs tighten and clench around me, and I finally let go.

My hips still after a minute, and I press my forehead to Amelia’s sternum as she runs her fingers lazily through my hair, from crown to nape. She continues to tease the hairs along my neck and groans, satisfied. Her legs trembling around me, I carefully withdraw from between them and lower her to the floor.

I smile, nodding toward the bedroom we still have yet to enter. “Come on, let’s take this to the bedroom.”

“Ready so soon?” she teases.

Chuckling, I take her by the hand and lead her to the room. “Give me a bit,” I reply. “I wanted to give you your present. It’s in there.”

She moans, following me through the door and sitting on the edge of my bed before flopping down on her back while I walk over to my tall dresser and grab the envelope that sits on top. “I’d be okay if what we just did in the hall was my present. That was fucking awesome.”

My pride swells—as does my cock—and I return to the bed. Looking down at her, I smile, admiring how her dark hair fans out around her head and her tits sit perfect and round on her chest.

“Then I guess I could always give these to someone else,” I tell her, not at all serious.

Amelia sits up quickly, and I find it hard to remove my eyes from her chest, even as she holds her hands out for the envelope. “Well, you’ve already gone to the trouble,” she tells me, her eyes wide and bright with curiosity.

I hand her the envelope and watch as she opens it. After removing the two tickets, she takes a minute to read them, her eyebrows furrowing as her eyes rise to mine. “Owen,” she says softly, making it hard for me to gauge her reaction to the unspoken invitation to my office New Year’s party. “Is this a good idea? I mean… Your coworkers and friends? What if Gretchen shows up? I wouldn’t put it past her…”

I sit next to her on the bed, urging her to face me as I place my hands on her knees. “Would it help to ease your worries if I told you this was a masquerade ball?”

Amelia’s breath catches in her throat, and I can see her apprehensions beginning to flit away as she imagines the possibilities. “A masquerade,” she repeats, dropping her eyes back to the tickets. “So, no one would suspect a thing.”

“No identities need to be revealed,” I assure her.

Slowly, her lips turn up into a smile, and her eyes find mine once more. “Then I guess I’ve got some shopping to do.”

19. All I Ask of You

I
have exactly twenty-four hours to find the
perfect
dress for Owen’s office party. Attending something like this is definitely risky, especially given we haven’t really come out as a couple to anyone. Add to that, Gretchen’s showing up is a very real possibility since she’s a shareholder in his company.

It’s the small fact that this is a masquerade ball that sets my mind at ease.

After sharing the delicious breakfast he made, I kiss Owen goodbye and head out on my shopping trip. There’s one small snag in my plan though: I have no clue where to start looking for a ball gown. I’m comfortable enough in my own femininity that I enjoy dressing up and doing my hair and makeup, but going to balls? I can honestly say that the opportunity has never presented itself. One could make the argument about prom dress shopping, but that was
prom
. This is a
ball
. Prom dresses are a far cry from what I envision when I think of what one would wear to a ball.

Truthfully, I want to knock Owen’s socks off, and I don’t think a prom dress is going to do that. I figure the most it will serve to do is remind him of our age difference. Not exactly the best idea.

While I wait for my bus on the sidewalk, I grab my phone and dial Liz’s number. I know she’s still in Mexico, but if anyone would have a good idea where to shop, it’s her; her family is always attending fancy soirees and such.

“Hey, Amy! Happy almost New Year!” she greets excitedly. “How was Portland?”

I laugh. “It was pretty great. How’s Mexico?”

“Hot,” she replies with a laugh. “I got a pretty wicked tan, and I’m currently sitting on the beach with a couple of drinks while my parents do whatever it is they do this damn early. What are you up to? Any big plans for tomorrow night? The hotel we’re staying at is throwing a huge party, so I’m going to go to that.”

“Actually, that’s one of the reasons I’m calling you,” I admit. “I got invited to this party…a masquerade ball, to be specific.”

“Fun!” Liz exclaims. There’s a brief pause as I imagine her sitting up from her lounge chair and wrapping her arms around her knees, much like she does when we gossip on my bed before passing out. “Did your booty call guy invite you?”

Laughing again, I shake my head at her ridiculousness. “I thought I told you to stop calling him that. And yes. He did, actually.”

“Soooo…I guess that means the two of you have gone public?” she inquires curiously. “So now you can share with your best friend who he is?”

“Soon,” I assure her. “I promise.”

She doesn’t seem too surprised by my answer, but she does sigh with feigned exasperation. At least, I think it’s feigned.

“So, did you call me just to rub it in my face that you get to go to some fancy-schmancy party?”

“Asks the girl who gets invited to
all
the fancy-schmancy parties,” I quip, both of us laughing. “And no, actually. I was wondering if you could recommend a place for me to go to find a dress.”

Liz rambles off a list of dress shops as my bus comes into view, and I enter them into my phone so I don’t forget them. Before I hang up, Liz reminds me that I’ll need to stop by a party store to search for a masquerade mask, stating that a lot of shops carry them almost year-round since masquerade balls are becoming more and more popular.

I have zero luck in the first two dress shops on my list. Most of what I find in them are bridal gowns, and anything that isn’t white or ivory is taffeta and screams bridesmaid. I don’t want to wear a cotton-candy pink bridesmaid dress. While some of them are lovely, none of them are masquerade ball material.

For me, anyway.

The third shop I step into gives me hope. It’s not like the others—all crisp and formal, their walls lined with white bridal gowns—instead boasting a more modern feel in the rich colors of the tapestries, paint, and furniture. It’s not a large shop, and it doesn’t have nearly the number of dresses that the other two had, but what I’m seeing on the few mannequins that are scattered about draws me forward. These dresses are elegant, yet geared more toward my generation. They’re unique among the vast amounts of dresses that all looked the same in the other stores.