UnConventional Page 8

  Lonely.

  Yet, somehow, I feel if I threw myself in Santiago’s lap, he’d wrap his arms around me, rough hands against my skin. Whisper—maybe even sing off-key in that husky voice of his—and make everything right, if only for a few fleeting seconds.

  For a moment, I’m tempted to take that.

  I have his full attention, the game momentarily forgotten, echoing the cab. “It’s… I mean… I’m still trying to figure it out, but…” Even though it’s not my turn, I’m suddenly intensely focused on chalking up the tip of my cue, way too much, but it gives me something to do. “It’s about a woman struggling to find love. Herself. Meaning.” I turn redder than the number-three ball.

  He smiles at me, pushes back, grabs his stick, and takes a shot, knocking a ball in. My eyes narrow reflexively, but he laughs, and I find myself relaxing too. “Intriguing,” he says. “A little existential… Have you read Grendel?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s the story of Beowulf from the monster’s perspective, wondering is he really a monster? Society and family put these expectations in place; we earn labels, fall into roles,” he says, his face growing pensive and solemn. “But people don’t fall into neat little categories, no matter how much we might try to fit them there.”

  “You can’t force someone to be something they’re not?”

  He considers this, shifting to the other side of the table for his next shot. Finally, he says, his eyes suddenly uncharacteristically vacant, pained, “You can, but they’ll never be happy.”

  * * * *

  I’ve got my hands full of drinks, carefully making the long walk toward the back pool tables. Not an easy feat when I’m already a little drunk. Santiago, the rascal, is using the cue stick to reach and nudge all his balls into pockets. Either it’s his way of signaling he’s tired of playing, or he’s a shameless cheat.

  “Is this how you won all those games in college?”

  My single ball, the cue ball, and the eight ball are all that remain on the table.

  He attempts a straight face, but his smile is trying to push through, his dimple just visible, his eyes sparkling. “You missed it. It was incredible. I was practicing and happened to hit the cue just right to knock all my balls in. I just have to get the eight ball and I win.” He bites his bottom lip to hold in his smile.

  “Uh-huh,” I say, trying to suppress my own grin, but I can feel it bubbling beneath my cheeks. “That’s like doing a magic trick by telling someone to turn around first.”

  He shrugs, accepting his drink from me. “Hey, it worked for Jesus,” he says.

  I laugh, loving how we can talk about art and literature and philosophy, yet he can still make a South Park reference.

  “Cheating’s not always bad, right?” He’s laughing, but that hits me like a comet crashing into me, reminding me that’s exactly what I’m doing right now. Cheating. Sensing the shift in my mood, he lifts his glass. “A toast. To finishing your novel. To connections. To fun.”

  “To cheating,” I say out loud unwittingly.

  He laughs. Together, we each say “Cheers” and “Salud,” and I down my rum in one gulp, feeling the fierce burn in my throat and nose.

  “Wow, I can only imagine what you were like in college,” he says with a laugh. “Wish I’d known you then.”

  “Me too.” I grab his cue, which he left resting on the table, and put it in his hand. “Line up the winning shot.”

  He sets his drink aside, pulls himself closer to me using the table, and leans forward, taking his aim. I watch, trying not to interfere, but it’s too much.

  “No, you’ll never get it like this,” I say, stepping behind him, between his wheels. I lean over, wrapping my arms around him, my hands on his arms, breasts pressed against his back, my nose near enough to his neck I can pick out the subtle notes of his cologne: earthy, deep, like a pecan-wood fire. His breath has hitched, and he’s turned his eyes up toward mine. His lips are so close I can taste the rum on his breath.

  The chorus of New Found Glory’s “Caught in the Act” is blaring, encouraging me to do something I’ll regret tonight. My eyelids are heavy, my heart pounding, my knees threatening to give out, and all I can think about is what his tongue will feel like against mine. The angle is awkward, but just a few millimeters more…

  A flash of red catches my peripheral vision, and I glance up. Our order is ready. Oh God. My heart feels like a solid presence blocking my throat, and I’m flushed.

  “I better go grab that,” I say and dash off as quickly as wobbling legs will carry me, before he has time to protest.

  * * * *

  We’re sequestered in the back corner of the bar, me slumped on one side of the booth and Santiago pulled in with his chair beside me. We’re both drunk, although I’m pretty sure I’m drunker, since I met every shot of his with one of my own, plus a glass of double-fermented beer. Still, we’re laughing, mostly because he’s been telling Boudreaux jokes nonstop for the last…I don’t know, a long time.

  “So Boudreaux and Thibodeaux,” he says in a faux Cajun accent he actually impersonates pretty well, “are fishing. And Boudreaux says, ‘Thibodeaux, I got me some vacation time coming up, and I gotta spend it.’ And Thibodeaux says, ‘You should go to Paris.’ And Boudreaux says, ‘Ah, naw. I ain’t going anywhere you say no more. Three years ago, you told me to go to New York, so I did. And Charmane got pregnant. Then you told me to go to Hawaii. So I did. And Charmane got pregnant again. Then you told me to go to London, so I did. And Charmane got pregnant again! So this year, I’m going somewhere close. Somewhere cheap.’” Santiago’s eyes sparkle. “‘So I can take Charmane with me.’”

  I laugh, way harder than I probably should, and snag one of the remaining oysters. “You know, these are aphrodisiacs,” I say, stumbling over the word, waving it toward his mouth.

  “Are they,” he says, following my hand.

  I tease him for a few seconds before popping it in his mouth.

  He surprises me by sucking on my fingers, teasing them with his tongue, looking at me seductively, eyes fiery. We haven’t even kissed yet, and he’s mouth fucking my fingers. And it’s the hottest fucking thing ever. I’m ready to melt. No. Climb into his lap and plunge my tongue down his throat.

  When I finally get my fingers back, we’re both breathing hard, eyes fixed on each other. Seconds pass like this. Our lips nearly touch.

  Green Day’s “Stay The Night” starts blaring from the speakers, and I squeal.

  “I love this song!” I say. “We should dance!” I leap out of my seat.

  Santiago’s laughing at me, dialing his phone. “I think it’s time to call a cab,” he says, watching me.

  “Okay, fine! But I want to get a daiquiri for the drive back.”

  He sighs. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

  I laugh, tossing my hair, spinning around and somehow, miraculously managing to stay upright. “I decided if I don’t wake up tomorrow with regrets, it’s not a real night in New Orleans.”

  He laughs. “Whatever you say, linda.”

  Chapter Eight

  The cab ride is hazy. The guy at the daiquiri place seems to have put more rum than flavor and ice in mine, and that, combined with everything I had at Cooter Brown’s, is beginning to hit me. Before I know it, we’re back at the hotel, and my door is open, Santiago offering his hand to help me out. Wait. How did he get out before me? I manage to get my legs out of the cab, but I’m dizzy. His chair was in the trunk, right? I let him help me to my feet, and push my drink into the hands of a valet, who seems to be watching us both. Nervously? Maybe. I’m not sure. The world’s spinning.

  A few unsteady steps and I’m going down, but Santiago catches me, eases me into his lap. He’s saying something. To me? To the cabbie? I’m not sure. But I like it here. I curl up, rest my head on his shoulder. He smells so nice, that same woodsy, earthy aroma I picked up in the bar, with the hint of smoke on his clothes. We probably both smell. I sigh softly
, feel him chuckle.

  “Let’s get you upstairs,” he says as he carefully arranges my limbs, presumably so I don’t get tangled in his wheels. He’s shifted me so my legs rest on his, one arm under his, the other around his neck, my head tucked into the angle of his neck and shoulder.

  As we start to move, it feels like a dream. I know it’s probably the alcohol, but rather than rolling, it’s like floating. We move slowly, partially because of my extra weight, partially because my arms inhibit his movement, partially because he’s drunk too. I press my forehead into the nape of his neck, feeling the faint throb of his pulse against my skin.

  As he pushes us through the automatic doors, the lobby’s air-conditioning hits me, sending goose bumps up and down my body, and I try to pull myself closer. He’s so comfortingly warm. Being so near him like this, touching him, him touching me, his arm just barely grazing mine as he pushes, inhaling his scent with each breath—I can’t stop myself from brushing my nose against his neck, just above his collar, and this leads to my lips, and soon I’m kissing him softly, sensually, on the skin below his jawline.

  I feel his arms still, and we coast, momentum carrying us as he leans into my caresses. His breathing increases as we roll to a stop, so I look up without leaving his neck, realizing we’re only halfway through the enormous lobby, the elevators still several feet away. We’re shielded from the majority of hotel traffic here, a large bank of potted plants on his left. Encouraged, I nibble Santiago’s neck lightly, playfully, tasting his skin with the tip of my tongue. He lets out a groan.

  I take this as a sign to continue, wrapping my arms tighter around him to brace myself from slipping out of his lap. This still feels so unreal, my head buzzing as I kiss up his neck toward his ear, the base of his hair. He follows my movements, eyes closed, savoring the feeling as I nuzzle and tease his skin.

  Then his hands are on me, pulling me away. A flash of panic rises up. My head is muddled but clearing. Did I do something wrong?

  No. This can’t be wrong, I think, melting.

  He’s kissing me, one hand supporting my back. He opens his mouth, and I feel the rush of his warmth, finally taste his tongue, sweet and tangy, resonating with rum. Please, let me never wake up, I think, our bodies seeming to merge into each other, into this kiss, into this moment.

  His other hand finds its way to the curve of my ass, pressing me closer. I reach up toward his hair, hair I longed to touch since I first sat down beside him on the plane. It feels as good as I imagined: silky, yet with texture and plenty of body. It smells rich and natural, like a cross between fresh leaves and coffee.

  A rush of heat floods my body, and I’m suddenly grateful for the way the lace of my new sexy underwear rubs against me, enhancing my arousal. I want to feel his hands everywhere. I want this kiss to last until we both pass out from lack of breath. I feel exhilarated as I’ve never felt before, a high better than being drunk.

  He finally pulls me back gently. We’re both breathing heavily. Lust sparkles in his eyes, a playful smile coloring his face. He bites his bottom lip, the cutest, sexiest expression.

  I study his eyes, feeling the electric tingle where our bodies press together. The alcohol’s effect is weakening. I’m still buzzed, but now I think it’s more from being in Santiago’s lap, from his kiss, from the feeling of never wanting to leave him. I want this. I want him.

  “Take me upstairs,” I say. I pause, suck in a breath. “To your room.”

  Cupping my cheek, he kisses me again, slowly, languishingly, as if trying to savor my taste. Finally, he pulls back, smiling, gazing at me with that soft glow that makes me want to fall into his eyes.

  * * * *

  Santiago momentarily cradles me with one arm while he reaches forward with the other to hit the elevator call button, securing me in his lap. I love the safety and comfort sitting here brings me; I fit, and not just physically, a sense of peace overwhelming me unlike any I’ve experienced before—at least not with a man. If I could spend eternity like this, curled up in his lap, my head nestled on his shoulder, I think I could learn what happiness really means.

  We don’t have to wait long; after a few moments, the doors open and a couple step out, the woman glancing down at us with a frown of disapproval. The self-conscious part of me seems to be squirreled away behind the drunk section of my brain. Or maybe I’m so content in Santiago’s lap I don’t care. I hug him tighter, kiss his cheek, and glance up at her: a wordless fuck you punctuated by a sly smile.

  She huffs and disappears. Santiago laughs as he guides us into the elevator, pausing to slam the button for his floor—five—then pushing us to the back so we’re facing the doors. As soon as they shut, before the elevator even jerks upward, he’s grabbing me, hands sliding over my dress, palms teasing my breasts, kissing me wherever he can reach without shifting me in his lap.

  Growing impatient, I brace myself on his shoulders, struggling to find a position that enables me to face him without my legs getting in the way. Although he attempts to help me maneuver, with both of us drunk, there are several “Ows” and “Sorrys” and giggles before we find something that works. We do, and soon I’m settled, cross-legged in his lap, my skirt tucked away so it won’t catch in his wheels. He takes hold of me, again with a hand on my back and another on my cheek. I never knew kisses could feel so good, be so passionate.

  This position is wonderful, bringing me oh so much nearer to him. I want to taste every square millimeter of his mouth, one hand still on his shoulder, the other in his hair—that incredible, fragrant hair. As we kiss, oblivious to everything but each other, I struggle to press myself closer, desperate to have as much contact as possible. I love how his breath comes quick, heavy with arousal whenever we pull away enough to inhale.

  Still bracing myself with one hand on the back of his head, I allow my other to slide down from its place on his shoulder across his chest, feeling his pecs and leading toward his belly, still kissing him with intensity, my eyes closed, blood throbbing. My hand reaches his belt, hesitating. Will he stop me?

  He pulls back from our kiss, I open my eyes, and we look at each other. I can see by the sheen of his irises how much he wants me. Our chests rise and fall in unison, but before either of us can do anything, the elevator stops and lets out a ding. His floor.

  I grip his shoulders for support. He’s laughing because my body blocks his view and he has to lean to see before pushing us out the elevator.

  We laugh together, trying to kiss as he rolls us blindly down the hall, lips not quite meeting from awkwardness and movement and drunkenness and laughter. His room isn’t far from the elevators, and soon we glide to a stop. Gripping his shoulders, I take my kiss, exploring his perfect teeth, my tongue dancing with his, my heart rate soaring as if feeding off him.

  “Key,” he says, his voice breathy.

  Unexpectedly, he wraps one arm firmly around me, then leans forward, tipping me backward. It’s a rush, as he fishes the key out of the pouch behind his legs. For a moment, it’s like a strange dance. Rather than being afraid I’ll fall, I’m exhilarated, and I know for sure I want him more than anything.

  Upright, he presents the key to me as if giving me one final opportunity to back out. Staring at it, for a moment reason pierces drunken desire and I wonder if I should be honest with him—tell him I’m married.

  He notices my hesitation; I can see his eyes dim. He shifts his concentration to getting the door open—not an easy task with my torso and head in the way—perhaps so I won’t see the glimmer of disappointment.

  “Fuck,” he says, getting frustrated and angry when he can’t manage to time the swipe of the key and jerk of the handle correctly while I occupy his lap, but I suspect it’s more than that.

  I balance myself, not easy when I’m tipsy from drink and arousal, grabbing his wrist that holds the card to stop him. He tenses, forearm muscles taut beneath my hand. This is my last chance. I could climb off his lap, walk away, leave this all a memory.

  I
nstead, I lean forward, lips near his ear. “I want this,” I say, my hand slipping past the buckle that stopped me before, to his crotch, fingers easing between his legs. My stomach flips when I feel the warm pressure of his erection. A smile blooms on my face, and I make sure to meet his eyes. “I want you.”

  I feel dirty and naughty and scandalous and alive as I stroke him through his jeans. I’m practically having sex with a man I hardly know. In a hotel hallway. In his wheelchair. Yet right now, the only thing wrong is that we’re both wearing far too much clothing.

  Euphoria washes over me as I feel him grow beneath my hand, his breathing increasing. Short, sharp inhalations followed by sighing exhalations. If that isn’t hot enough, he speaks.

  “Di,” he says, struggling to say my name, as short as it is, as easy as saying the fourth letter of the alphabet. The way his voice dips lower when he says it, the word forcing its way out with his breath, magnifies the wet heat in my pussy. I lean into him, kissing his neck from base to ear, first on one side, then the other, a few quick flicks of my tongue against the lobe. “Oh fuck, Di,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. I keep kissing, and somehow he manages to maneuver us so he can more easily access the door. Although he’s fumbling around me, I don’t stop. I want to kiss every part of him: his eyes, his cheek, his neck, his ears, his chest—create a trail from head to toe.

  I feel his arm jerk, the lock click, and the rush of air that hits my back as the door opens. I lift my head, glancing back briefly into his room, one hand pressed against his shoulder blade as he wheels us in. I want to kiss him there too.

  I blow lightly on his ear, and he answers with a low moan, shifting his head as he reaches back with his other hand to push the door shut behind us. My heart’s trotting in my chest. I’m excited, that jittery night-before-Christmas kind of anticipation I haven’t felt in years. I want him like I’ve been waiting my whole life for this. Like I finally realize what Madonna was singing about. Like this is my first time.