Colleen Collins - Tongue-tied

Her lips found his again and she plunged her tongue into that hot, wet cavern. He tasted delicious. Like sin and heat. Like all those forbidden, lusty bad things a good girl was never supposed to want. Oh, God, she wanted all those things…wanted to experience more, more, more…

“Hold still, honey,” whispered the man. “You’re about to fall off the table.”

“Huh?” Robin fluttered open her eyes and stared into those dangerously blue eyes…had she noticed those thick, black lashes before?

“The table,” he whispered again. “You’re about to fall off.”

She looked down, barely registering that the lower half of her body was nearly lying across one end of the table, her feet dangling. Her rayon dress had scooted up to an indecent place somewhere beneath her thigh. She released her death grip on his jacket with one hand and weakly tugged on the hem of her dress.

Strong arms lifted her and set her onto her feet. She felt woozy, weak. When his arms pulled away, she teetered, then fumbled for the edge of the table. Gripping the hard edge, her only concrete link to reality, she looked at the object of her kiss. In their torrid connection, she hadn’t really seen the entire man she’d been so focused on his parts—his lips, his eyes, his wonderfully errant hand…. He was one sizzling sight to behold. Rumpled hair—had she done that? Thick lashes that fringed lethal blue eyes—hadn’t he been wearing glasses a minute ago? Funny, without them, he almost looked like Johnny again….

She cut a glance to her right—Jill and her boyfriend were gone. Good. Mission accomplished. Releasing her breath in a forced stream, Robin feebly smoothed her dress. Then, she looked back at the handsome stranger with whom she’d become wordlessly intimate.

She licked her lips, wishing she wasn’t shaking so badly. “Coff-coffee?” She aimlessly pointed in the general direction of the steaming pot sitting on the other table.

The man’s smile kicked up a notch. “Is it as hot as you?” He winked.

Hooo boy. Robin gulped, pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, and shook her head no.

His grin kicked up a notch. “I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he murmured.

And I’ve gone with you. Nothing,nothing had ever affected her like the last few moments—which could have been hours, days, a small eternity for all she knew. She’d fallen, body and soul, into a time warp of liquid passion where she felt delicious heat, tasted forbidden pleasures…And if she didn’t leave at this very moment she’d hurl this damn coffeepot across the room, throw any remaining shreds of decorum out the window, and jump this guy’s bones with the fervor of a pent-up, been-without-sex-for-five-years-and-counting woman.

Panting, she stared at him, wondering if he’d read her mind because those sparkling blue eyes of his looked very, very intrigued.

Part of her wanted to suggest they meet again, make a saucy suggestion about getting together for more than a tabletop tryst, be sassy like Dottie or Jill or other hot babes who teased their men with words. But no doubt Robin would start to speak and his look of heated interest would cool before she’d stammered out the first word.

That sobering thought also cooled her overactive libido. Best to leave this situation, now. Leave this guy with the memory of the “mystery waitress” who almost laid more than silverware on his table because he’d never see her again. Even if he came back, she’d be in the back, prepping the kitchen.

With a swivel, she turned, snatched the handle of the pot, and walked stiff-kneed back to the kitchen, the soles of her shoes squeaking relentlessly against the linoleum floor.

As she passed Al, he said with a snort, “I told you to serve coffee, not yourself!” With a shake of his head, mumbling something about having thought he’d seen it all, Al continued getting the grill and utensils ready for tomorrow’s new day of work.

Robin became super busy doing her own nightly routine, which consisted of turning off the coffeemaker, cleaning the pots, stocking tomorrow’s glasses and silverware. Flustered, and still sizzling herself, she fussed and cleaned things she normally left alone—she wiped the outside of the toaster, refolded several kitchen towels, straightened the kitchen rubber mat at least four times. After ten frenetic minutes of hyperactivity, she sneaked a look at the dining room. The stranger’s booth was empty….

She tried not to feel disappointed. After all, it was just a crazy kiss, not a date.

But in her heart, she knew it was more than just a crazy kiss. She’d had crazy kisses in high school. Pecks on the lips. Awkward, fumbling kisses. Prolonged make-out kisses that, at best, fired a spark….

This had been different.

This crazy kiss had been a mind-melding, body-bonding, life-altering kiss. Before Robin had walked out onto that floor, she’d known adolescent passion.

Now, she was a woman aching for all the experiences she’d never had. And if she were back home, she’d confess all this to her mother, then refute her mom’s suggestions that Robin was once again being overly dramatic. Because, for the first time in her life, Robin had tasted sinful heat—so hot, the rest of her experiences seemed lukewarm if not plain cold.

She glanced at the clock. Twelve-thirty. Going-home time. Robin donned her sweater, the one with colorful kitties crocheted into the threads, for the walk to her nearby apartment. Al was in the back, calling somebody on the pay phone. He glanced up when she waved bye, and although he said good-night in the same gruff voice he always did, he gave her a funny look. Probably a “Try to behave tomorrow night” look. She smiled. She’d have the reputation as a hottie at DU and Davey’s Diner. Not a bad way to end the worst day of her life.

Walking out the door, the night air had a hint of fall—a teasing cool breeze that traced the late-summer darkness. Above, a full moon hung suspended, like a promise.

“Robin.”

A man’s voice. She looked down. Not just any man, that man. The stranger she’d kissed. Her heart leaped in her throat. How’d he know her name?

“You don’t remember me.”

She looked at him under the streetlight, observed how the light spilled over him in a silver haze. It filtered through his dark, tousled hair, poured over his black leather jacket. Under the light, his face was cast in light and shadows. He looked at her intently, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders slouched as he leaned against the lamppost.

Heat shot through her. “Johnny,” she whispered.

JOHNNY WATCHED Robin stand there, gaping at him. She looked as cute as she had back in grade school. Straight, flyaway blond hair and those big gray-green eyes that took in everything. Those eyes he’d almost recognized back in the diner before he’d been hit with that blast of passion that had melted his logical, rational thoughts…the kind of thoughts that normally filled his mind as Jonathan Dayton, CEO of OpticPower. Which is who he’d been back at that diner, a CEO—well, a CEO in disguise—intently reviewing legal papers for the upcoming board meeting.

Then, like a bolt of lightning, this young, fiery woman damn near burned his logical brain to smoldering ashes.

He looked into her face, trying to read the look in her eyes. If they were inside, under the bright fluorescent lights, he bet he could read what she was thinking right now. He’d been able to do that years ago, back home, anyway. Back then, he guessed her thoughts by the sparkle in her eye—and most of the time, he’d been right. And he’d been able to sense her emotions, too. Hurt darkened her eyes, clouding them over like a distant storm. Joy lightened them to a sparkling green, like sunlight on the sea. A hundred thoughts, emotions would be racing through her, and she’d think keeping her mouth shut meant no one knew.