Christa Wick: Slow Hand Curves

My lower body twitching with the aftershocks of my release, Sam eased me back onto the table. He stepped around to my side, one hand quickly reclaiming possession of my pussy while the other cleared the wild fall of curls from my face. Gripping my forehead and my pussy, he bent down and kissed me. My juices were still on his lips and tongue, the scent and flavor mingling with his.

“Address on your sheet the right one?” His gaze studied me as if wary of a lie.

I nodded. I’d been too naive to think of listing a false address.

“Good, I’ll pick you up at six-thirty.” He paused as a fresh smile surfaced across his handsome face. “It would make me very happy if you wore a skirt or dress. Will you do that?”

Sam didn’t give me my panties back. I sort of asked him, but his mischievous grin told me I would have to do more than sort of ask for their return. I wasn’t sure how I felt about him keeping them as a trophy. That was half the problem — were they a trophy or a memento? When I considered them as a memento, my heart started skipping happily and a silly grin occupied half my face. But I didn’t want him to be the kind of man who took trophies.

I decided to ignore the question and buy new panties because, damn it, Bree had been one-hundred-percent correct when she joked about my granny panties. Every last pair was one of three colors: white, black or beige. They were all cotton and all plus size. Yep, I’m a real wild child.

Browsing the lingerie section, I had no idea what Sam had in mind for the night, knew even less what I wanted him to have in mind. Still, I figured I couldn’t go wrong with silky ice blue panties and a matching bustier that would make my mother faint if she ever laid eyes on it.

Sam didn’t mention where we were going for dinner. Whether it was fancy or casual didn’t really matter when it came to my closet. The few dresses and skirts it held were either for church or work. So I stopped at the dress shop on my way home. Normally I keep my arms covered up, but I picked a sleeveless dress with a draped criss-crossing bodice and belted waist. Top and bottom, the free flowing fabric was draped. A deep turquoise, the dress had a full, circle skirt that fell a few inches past my knees to preserve my modesty while showing off a little bit of leg. Surprising, I know, but I like my legs — at least the parts below the knees. They look like they belong to a much thinner woman. I’m certain somewhere there is a really skinny girl pissed off because somehow she got my legs and I got hers.

Still smiling at the thought, I met Sam at my front door. I had finished my outfit with a white tatted shawl around my shoulders, pearl white pumps and a matching clutch. He had changed into a slim-fit, button-down, collared-shirt in a dark charcoal that had the thinnest of pinstripes. He wore the bottom out over dress slacks of the deepest gray. He presented a mouthwatering sight. Too mouthwatering, actually, for him to take me on a date or anything like it.

He caught me before I could retreat into my house. His hand curved around the back of my neck, the fingers pushing up into my curls as he pulled me toward him. He kissed the corner of my jaw, just a little below my ear. “Pure Hollywood.”

I pressed a palm against his chest and looked away. The gesture came close to the one I’d witnessed with Portia that afternoon. Only I truly am demure. My blush was real. It started somewhere above my knees and ended at the top of my cheeks.

Cupping my elbow, Sam led me to his car. It was a sedan, not much different than the decidedly family car Beau had complained about trading his Mustang in for once Melinda was six months pregnant and couldn’t slide into the sports car’s front seat like she used to.

Seeing the sedan, I realized I didn’t know anything about Sam other than where he worked. He was maybe six years older than me, judging by the laugh lines that were just starting to appear. He could be divorced.

Oh, double Dixie, I swore inside my head. He could be married! Worried, I turned to him as he opened the passenger side door.

“What’s wrong, Amber?” He squeezed my shoulder, his gaze growing concerned.

I looked at the sedan, worried I was about to insult him for the second time that day, but I had to know. “You’re single, right?”

Sam chuckled, his expression relaxing again. “I drive a truck, Hollywood. Single cab, bench seat, with a sticky manual transmission and a bad rear shock.”

Taking my hand, he maneuvered me into the seat, reached across me and fastened my safety belt. Cupping my face, he stared straight into my eyes. “This is my sister’s car. She’s got two rugrats.”

Embarrassed by not trusting him, I lowered my lashes. “I like trucks. My daddy drives one that sounds a lot like yours.”

His thumb brushed across my lower lip. “I’ll remember that for our second date.”

Stunned, I watched him circle the front of the car. Did he really want another date? Triple Dixie — I’d never had a second date. Most guys decided halfway through the first that being seen in public with me wasn’t worth getting close to Brandon Rice.

Sam folded his long frame into the driver’s seat. Seeing my expression, he quirked a brow at me. “Am I being too optimistic, Hollywood?”

That made me smile and lower my lashes again. I couldn’t remember smiling on any of my other dates. Of course, those dates had all been orchestrated by someone else — mother, Beau, Melinda…even Bree had arranged one of my dates. My father was the only one that didn’t try to fix me.

“Is that a yes or a no?” One eye on the rear view mirror the other on me, Sam backed out of the drive and onto the street.

“We’ll see.” I gave his shoulder a soft push.

Capturing my hand, he held it against the side of his thigh, his thumb lightly stroking the inside of my wrist. The sedan was new enough to have a bunch of controls on the steering wheel. He pressed one and the CD player started. I recognized the song immediately, even though I hadn’t heard of Etta James before that day.

“Are you being sentimental or just playing dirty?” I teased.

He gave me a quick side glance, his smile all bad boy beneath those dark brows and heavy lashes. “Can’t I be both?”

The possibility hadn’t occurred to me. I liked the idea. I liked it a lot, in fact. Turning coy for maybe the first time in my life, I smiled back at him. “I guess it depends where you come to a stop.”

His smoldering look hit me like a premonition. Or a memory — it was the same hot gaze I’d seen when he pulled my nipple taut, the hint of teeth pressing at the swollen tip. His right brow had the same slight lift as when he’d looked up from between my parted thighs to tell me we were having dinner together.

Ten minutes later, Sam pulled into the parking area of a steakhouse on Lemmon at Wycliff and released his safety belt. “Nervous, Hollywood?”

I nodded a little too emphatically.

“I should try to put you at ease, I guess.” He rested his palm on my shoulder. His fingers moved in a lazy caress along the back of my neck. “Thing is, you’re so damn sexy when you’re nervous.”

Sam leaned into me, one side of his massive chest pressing against my arm.

“Your mouth quivers.”

He kissed my quivering mouth.

“Your cheeks flush.”

He brushed his lips across my burning cheeks.

“And these…” He ran a finger over the straining point of one nipple. “They get so hard I want to strip you naked so I can suck on them.”

“Dinner?” My squeaky plea didn’t stop his slow caress of my skin. And if he didn’t stop, I had the sinking feeling I’d wind up on the ten o’clock news in handcuffs for having sex in the back seat of his sister’s sedan.