Pinpoint (Point #4) (11 page)

My heart drops.
Oh, no.
That completely benign comment about his family must have really upset Oscar. From his grim expression, it looks like he wants to bolt.

They converse in Spanish again, and the waiter clears our plates. I hear the word for check and know it’s time to go. I try my best not to let my disappointment show, but I don’t know the first thing about masking my emotions.

All of a sudden, Oscar captures my hand fidgeting with a napkin on the table. He strokes his thumb against my palm, causing goose bumps to erupt along my shoulder. Whatever tension he has is forgotten. “You’ll have to forgive me for not mentioning this to you earlier,” he says huskily. My fallen heart perks up. Recently discovered desire coils inside me. “Dessert at my place. I want to cook together.”

I swallow. Hard. There’s no mistaking his intentions.

I’m not so inexperienced that I can’t decipher what this man is saying. However, if I had to make an educated guess, I’d say that he wants to sleep with me or at least hookup, as I’ve heard Violet call it.

Maybe it’s the three-quarters of a margarita I drank, or maybe it’s Oscar’s dark, cinnamon-colored eyes bewitching my sense, but I cannot think of any logical reason to turn him down. I am a vibrant young woman. If I want to explore a relationship with a man who has been nothing but kind and courteous toward me, nothing should hold me back. Despite Cameron’s tame warnings about Oscar, I have seen no glaring red flags. Aside from my standard bouts of shyness, I am comfortable around him.

When will this type of experience make itself available to me? I won’t be afraid. I won’t go home by myself and wonder what could have happened.

“For once, I can’t read you,” Oscar observes. “The only emotion you’re displaying is steely determination. Are you determined to send me on my way or determined to try a recipe with me?”

I can’t help giggling a little.
Yeah, all he wants is to knead some dough.
“Well, what are we making?” Am I flirting? Yes, I am most definitely flirting.

“Chocolate-almond pastries.” Somehow, he makes the dessert sound sinful. With all the sugar and butter, it’s probably an artery killer, but still, he makes chocolate sound akin to sex.

“You are in luck, Mr. Alexander. Chocolate and almond are the magic words.”

Oscar chuckles. When the waiter drops a black leather envelope on the table with the check, he swipes it away before I have a chance. I dip down to grab my purse from where it rests against my chair and begin to pull out my wallet.

“Don’t think about,” he says sternly.

“But–”

“No arguments. This is the way it is when you’re out to dinner with me. I pay. You don’t argue.” Instantly, my mind goes to the future. Does that statement mean there will be other dinners? I shake the thought from my mind. “Before you say anything about being able to afford our dinner or equality in relationships, know that this is another lesson my mother drilled into me at a young age. Things we can’t overcome, right?” He arches a brow.

“I suppose, although it does seem a bit antiquated.”

Oscar shrugs, uncaring. “Call me old-fashioned.”

Although it’s only a few minutes, the time that it takes the waiter to process Oscar’s credit card drags. A tiny thrill races through me, making me antsy. Oscar seems impatient too because the moment the waiter places the envelope back on the table, he snatches it and quickly signs his name. With the same grace, he rises to his feet, sidesteps the table, and moves behind me to pull out my chair. I collect my bag and move the chair to stand.

“Sometimes, old-fashioned rules have their perks.” His warm breath tickles the shell of my ear. He stands close enough that I swear his lips whisper against my skin. There’s no hiding my shiver.

Agreed.

Fingertips at my lower back, Oscar guides me through the people, pausing briefly to say good-bye to Manuel. Again, he opens the passenger door and shuts it behind me once I am buckling my belt.

If history were any indicator, I should be nervous. Pinpricks of anxiety should be making their way across the pads of my fingers, yet the opposite is true. Every one of my cells is humming with electricity. Any anxiety rushing through me transforms to anticipation.

Jazzy piano fills the cabin of the car. Oscar keeps one hand lazily on the wheel, directing the vehicle confidently, and his other hand rests above my knee. Neither of us speaks on the short trip. I desperately want to know what he is thinking, but I also don’t want to interfere with the simmering sexual tension.

Wait.

Sexual tension. My nose wrinkles. Is that what this is? The air between us crackles with energy. His grip on my leg is possessive, like—like I’m his to take.

You’ve been reading too many bodice rippers,
I chide myself silently.

“There’s an awful lot of thinking going on over there,” Oscar says.

I have to clear my throat and wet my lips before my dry mouth works properly. “Enjoying the ride,” I lie.

Oscar catches my fib, smirking toward the windshield. “Surely, you know that you aren’t an accomplished liar,” Oscar says.

“Surely, you know it isn’t polite to demand I tell you everything on my mind. A person is allowed to indulge in thoughts without necessarily spelling all of them out. Sometimes, thoughts are just thoughts. Fleeting concepts to contemplate at a later time.”

Oscar chuckles richly. “You are something else. Okay, Iris. I’ll let you have this one. No further questions. As it is, we have arrived.” He rounds a corner, pulling into the driveway of a towering three-story single-family glass and steel structure. A balcony juts out from the second floor, and it looks as though there’s a roof deck, too.

Oscar parks the car inside a garage. This time, I don’t give him the opportunity to open my door, to which I receive a frown but no comment. I follow him through a mudroom-slash-laundry room up a staircase to the open concept main floor. On one side is a cozy living room and on the other, a sitting area. A kitchen and dining area separate the two spaces. Naturally, the kitchen is fit for a professional chef with shiny, white quartz countertops, high-end stainless steel appliances, a massive rectangular island, and a wine closet. The hardwood floors are oak. All the furnishings are neutral tones, except for the blue piping on one chair and colored pillows adorning the chairs and sofas. The dining table has an impressive display of blue hydrangeas.

“Your home is lovely.” I twist my head to look over my shoulder to where Oscar stands a few feet behind me.

“Hmm,” he murmurs as though he doesn’t hear me. His dark eyes study me with yet another indescribable glaze. The same charged voltage fills the air as it did in the car. Oscar closes the gap between us. His fingers curl around my neck, and he tilts my head to the side. I stare at him, unblinking, breathless, heady, consumed by his scent.

“Your cologne . . .” My eyelids fall shut, and I find myself inhaling through my nose.

When he speaks, he brushes his mouth against mine. “I don’t wear cologne, Iris.”

My eyes blink open, and I find I’m so close I only see the dip between his nose and full lips, the curves of his cheekbones, and the line of his jaw. The scent of sandalwood teases my nostrils.

“Aftershave,” he rasps.

Then I’m not thinking of anything at all. When his warm, soft lips press against mine, all logical reasoning disintegrates.

This
is a kiss.

Ravenous.

Hungry.

Somehow, my hands end up clutching his biceps to urge him closer. One of the hands holding my neck skims backward, fisting my hair. He tilts my head further, granting him better access to fuse our lips together. His tongue teases the seam of my lips until I part my mouth. He laps my tongue, nibbles my lips.

I feel Oscar everywhere—physically—and somehow, the force of him ignites every one of my cells.

Pleasurable sensations bombard every single synapse. Tingles race through my body. Flaming desire courses through my veins.
Don’t stop, don’t stop
, my body chants. I want to press the length of my body against his. I want to know what his arousal is like, know that a burning need consumes him too.

And then we’re not kissing. His hands fall to my waist, resting there lightly. I’m thankful he’s holding on to me. Otherwise, I might stumble. Head swimming, heart pounding, I am dizzy with want.

Oscar presses his forehead to mine, taking calming breaths. “I meant to get you a glass of wine. Pull out the recipe. Actually cook dessert. Yes, I intended to taste it off your lips—but I wasn’t going to rush this.”

My chest heaves. “I’m not complaining.”

“What. Do. You. Want?” He punctuates each word with fervor.

Think carefully, Iris. This is your first experience with a man. Don’t rush into anything you’re not ready–

“You. I want you, Oscar.”

The voice of reason silences immediately before I can second-guess myself. I am going to lose my virginity at some point, so why not now? A sensual, considerate, brilliant, honest man wants to make love to me. I would be a fool to turn him away. I’m ready. I want this.

All my life, I’ve lived by my father’s rules. Father had to approve it all—makeup, television programs, parties, and friendships. I was only allowed to have friends who belonged to the church. He controlled all aspects of my life, and I allowed it, even when I was old enough to know better. From the time I was born, Father dictated the rules of the house. Mother adhered to the rules, then Violet followed suit, and I, watching the examples ahead of me, fell into line. Even after my sister had the courage to break free, my self-esteem was too low to stand up for my own beliefs.

The first step to realizing my own dreams was moving to Chicago. Here, I have a chance to do something completely out of character from young Iris. I am not that terrified, unsure girl anymore. I am a passionate woman. A
woman.
Have I never considered myself an adult until this very moment? A larger rush of resolve churns through me.

“I want you, Oscar. I want this.”

Did that come from me? The words tumble from my lips without any hesitation. My goodness, it’s almost as if I’ve done this before.

Apparently, my boldness surprises Oscar too because his eyebrows rise an inch. Indecision flickers in his eyes, and for a moment, my intention wavers. A moment later, the vacillation disappears. Oscar tangles our fingers together, and with a gentle tug, he leads me to the staircase.

“The house tour will have to come later,” he says.

Oscar keeps me close as we ascend the staircase, our hands tangled together although he walks a step ahead of me as if he can’t move fast enough. My bicep brushes against the back of his arm, and the scent of sandalwood consumes my olfactory senses. Desire mixes with a level of euphoria, and any trace of anxiety disappears. Knowing that I am going to be intimate with Oscar Alexander is a rush. I’m the master of my own destiny. The thought gives me a high like (I imagine) no drug ever could.

The house rushes by in a blur. I don’t take notice of the décor or the colors of the walls or if there are bedrooms or bathrooms. I am watching the powerful line of Oscar’s shoulders as he advances to a door at the end of the hallway. He releases my hand to allow me to cross the threshold first.

At the loss of his touch, I’m unsure what to do next. I cross across a continuation of the same hardwood floor as downstairs to stand on a plush white carpet extending from underneath the gunmetal bed into the center of the room. Like downstairs, the bedroom decorated in neutral tones, although the bedding is ice blue. Large windows with white frames allow the moonlight to stream into the room.

One, two gentle thumps sound behind me. Probably Oscar toeing off shoes. And then his hands cup my upper arms. He nuzzles against my hair, burrowing against my neck. I respond, sinking into his touch, and cock my head to the side to grant him better access.

“You smell like vanilla.” The words rumble against my neck, and my eyes fall shut.

My pulse gallops at his commanding touch. A mixture of pleasure and a twinge of apprehension swirl inside me. I am unafraid of what is to come.

Oscar’s hands drift down my body, sending fissures of excitement sparking in his wake. His fingertips curl around my waist, and he spins me to face him. I am not as graceful as Oscar is, and I stumble on my skinny-heeled sandals. My body collides with his, chest pressing against chest, and I duck my head shyly.

“Look at me.”

I lift my head, giving Oscar the eye contact he demands.

“You are incredibly sexy.”

I fight back the urge to laugh. Hardly. This pastor’s daughter doesn’t know the first thing about seduction.

As if he hears my inner thoughts, Oscar speaks roughly. “Don’t belittle yourself. My attraction is obvious.” All my doubts dissolve when he crushes his lips to mine. This time, I’m ready for him, my lips parting, my tongue seeking his. The length of Oscar’s body molds to mine, and his
obvious attraction
presses urgently against my waist. His hands band around my back, arching my body in a way that allows him to drive into me.

There.
Right there. The layers of clothing do nothing to halt his persistent arousal from heightening my own desire. All of a sudden, I’m warm. Too warm. I want to touch my bare skin to his, but I don’t know how to go about getting what I want. A moan of frustration escapes my lips.

“Those sexy little noises make me crazy.” Oscar groans against my lips. His hands no longer anchor me to him when he tugs my blouse from where it is tucked into my skirt. With a smooth movement, he removes the garment leaving me standing in a blush lace bra. One hand circles my back to unclasp my bra and slip it off my shoulders. I am standing bare-chested for the first time in front of a man, and I feel no urge to cover my skin. The adrenaline racing through my veins makes me stand straight. And by the way his gaze hungrily roves over my body, I know he is attracted to me, too. His hands cover my breasts, cupping, tweaking, and teasing until I’m shuddering with need.

“You too,” I pant, wanting him to disrobe.