Chapter 8: After the ball is over

Jenny

"That wasn't too horrible, was it?"

I sneak a peek at Nico's profile as we slide through the dark on our way home. I have to admit that calling the house where we live our home gives me a legit thrill. It's like we're playing house . . .which I guess is pretty accurate, considering that everything about us right now is make believe.

"No," he admits, his grip on the wheel tightening a little. "It was actually kind of fun. The people you work with are easy to be around." He side-eyes me. "That Dr. Girard seems to think a lot of you. He was very . . . complimentary."

"Oh, really?" I smile a little. Deacon looked damn hot tonight in his tuxedo, and I'd noticed more than one woman staring. He'd been oblivious, though, focusing more on the staff, the donors and the other invited guests.

"Yeah." Nico's voice is dark, and I glance at him again. He's scowling. I wonder what that's about? "I mean, he knows you've got a boyfriend, right?"

I'm not sure which makes me giddier-that Nico just referred to himself as my boyfriend, or that he sounds jealous of Deacon. I'm careful in my reply.

"Uh, he's under the impression that I do, yes. Why do you ask?"

He rolls his shoulders. "Nothing. Just the way he was looking at you. If I really was your boyfriend, I'd have been pissed."

I don't point out that even now, he sounds more than a little annoyed. Changing the subject sounds like a better idea.

"Well, I'm really grateful that you came with me tonight. I know it wasn't on your list of favorite ways to spend an evening, but it meant a lot to me-and it would've meant a lot even if you weren't pretending to be my boyfriend. Going to a big event like that on my own would've been a little scary."

"I don't know why." Nico eases the car into the driveway, slowing to wait for the garage door to rise. "You shine at these social deals, Jen. You're smart, you're confident, and you're fucking beautiful, too, if that counts for anything. And you have this thing . . ."

I frown as the car stops. Reaching for my door handle, I look over my shoulder at Nico. "I have a thing?"

"Yeah." He climbs out of his seat, too. "It's this, like, glow. It comes from inside you, and it makes people want to be around you all the time. You're easy, Jenny. And I don't mean that in a sexual way," he adds quickly. "I mean that you make it easy for people to be in your company. Being around you isn't complicated or uncomfortable."

"Thank you. I think." I close my car door and head for the house, but Nico stops me with a hand on my arm.

"Hey, it's a nice night, and it's not too late. Want to go sit out by the pool for a few minutes?"

I pause. "Like this?" I sweep my hand down my dress. "This gown was a good deal, buddy, but not so much that I care to go swimming in it and ruin the whole thing."

"I'm not talking about taking a dip, babe. I'm just saying, let's sit out and enjoy the evening a little more." He seems like he's about to say something else, and then he takes on step away from me. "Want a glass of wine? I'll detour through the kitchen and meet you out there. I've got that Pinot Grigio that I picked up last week."

I consider and then nod. I was very careful not to imbibe too freely at the ball. First of all, it was a work event, and I never want to be that woman who gets drunk and stupid in front of her colleagues. Second, I wasn't sure what the combination of alcohol and seeing Nico in a tux, with his arm around me most of the night, might make me do or say. It was too dangerous a mix.

Nico goes through the house, and I follow the stone path that leads to the backyard. It really is a beautiful evening, with a light breeze making the tree branches dance overhead and stirring up ripples on the mirrored surface of the pool. I sit down in the padded glider on the deck and kick off my heels, breathing a deep sigh of relief.

"Do your feet hurt?"

I didn't hear Nico's approach, and I jump a little, turning to accept the glass of wine he hands to me.

"Thanks. This looks perfect." I stretch my toes. "Yeah, they do. The shoes were pretty comfortable overall, but no pair of heels is like walking in the clouds. I don't care what anyone says."

Nico sinks down next to me. He's entirely too close, but I find myself only wanting to snuggle up nearer to him. Like I said before, dangerous.

He takes a sip of his wine-actually, it's more of a gulp-and then sets the glass on the table next to him. "Give them here."

"What?" I'm lost, probably because I've been staring at his chest and how perfectly that crisp white shirt stretches over it and sets off his bronzed skin. "Give you what?"

"Your feet," he answers patiently. "Put your feet on my lap, and I'll rub them for you."

I hesitate because the idea feels way too risky. His hands on my feet . . . my feet in his lap, much too close to . . . a certain part of him . . . I have a sudden vision of using my toes to run up and down the ridge under the fly of his black tux pants, and the idea makes my entire body flush.

But Nico doesn't seem to notice. He only cocks his head and opens his hands, so I throw caution to the wind and shift on the glider, settling myself in the corner in such a way that I can bend my knees and deposit my feet on his legs.

He doesn't say anything; he just gets right to work, easing the hem of my dress out of the way and using his thumbs to dig deep into the muscles that are aching and sore. He's like a foot massage ninja, knowing with some crazy innate sense exactly where to press and where to caress, and to my mortification, I drop my head back against the cushions and moan. Loudly. Like, a total sex moan, right here.

Nico definitely notices that I've made this sound, because his touch on my feet skitters just slightly, as if I've somehow thrown him off his game. And when he speaks, his voice is raspy.

"I take it this feels good."

I know I should make a joke, say something to break the growing tension, but I just can't. I'm too much in the depths of complete enjoyment and pleasure, so instead of making light of it, I do the exact opposite. I basically become a sex kitten, and I purr.

"Oh, it doesssss."

Because the side of my leg is resting against Nico's chest, I feel the hitch in his breath, and then I notice his chest is rising and falling a lot faster. He carefully sets down one of my feet onto his thigh so that he can give his total attention to the other foot. But his placement is faulty, because now the tips of my toes are brushing the crotch of his pants, and something hard is there.

Right. There.

Now I'm having trouble breathing. If I move my foot even a centimeter-hell, even a millimeter-it will be in the perfect position to rub up and down over what feels like it could be a devastatingly grand erection. I'm thinking it over, measuring the consequences of such a bold move. I reach for my wine glass on the premise that gulping down the Pinot will only help me to think clearer.

But when I lean to get the goblet, I forget that this is a glider, and it moves. I'm off-balance, and for a terrifying second, I think I'm going to crash headfirst onto the tiled deck.

Before that can happen, though, Nico grabs my hand and hauls me back. I'm relieved to avoid the concussion and possible bloody head wound I was envisioning, but now, there's another problem. He pulled me up so hard that my momentum has carried me to land with my head on his shoulder, with my ass resting real close to his lap. One of my arms instinctively curls around his neck to hold on, while his arm is wrapped my middle, his hand splayed over my ribs, with his fingertips perilously close to the undercurve of my breast.

He turns his face toward mine, and his wine-scented breath brushes over my cheek. He lays down the foot he was still holding, and I bend both of my legs a little closer to my body, trying to dull the ache that is pounding between my thighs. I want him so badly-need him so badly-and unless I'm delusional-maybe I did hit my head, after all, and all of this is part of my trauma-induced hallucination?-Nico's eyes are dark with desire, too.

He brings his free hand up to rest at the back of my head, his fingers threading through my hair and undoing the hours of work I'd put into this updo. But I don't give one single fuck, because the sensation of his fingers on my scalp, the possessive way he's holding me and the now-unmistakable bulge in his pants are the stuff of my fantasies. I don't care if he rips this dress off me right now. As a matter of fact, I'd encourage him, and I'd gladly pay for the tuxedo that I'd end up destroying while returning the favor.

Finally, he angles my head, cradling me so that I'm in the perfect position for whatever he plans to do next. He bends his head, his lips almost touching mine, and whispers one word.

"Jenny . . ."