Rebound (3 page)

C
atwoman and I head to the dance floor and start moving together.

It’s packed around us, people jostling in the crowded space, the smell of alcohol and sweat hanging in the air. Pippa and Sadie dance nearby. Both of them have huge grins on their faces as they look from me to Catwoman, who rolls her body in front of me like she’s made of liquid.

When she glances at me, I see flashes of blue—pale blue, like the sky through my bedroom window in the morning—but it’s her body that has me locked in. I can’t stop staring at her. The leather cat suit hugs her every curve, and she’s gorgeous.

I look up, and find her eyes on mine.

“Hi, Zorro,” she says. Her smile is disarmingly sweet. Surprising, considering the way she’s moving.

Stepping closer, I link my hands behind her back. “Hello.”

She hesitates for an instant.

“This okay?” I ask, but she’s already wrapping her arms around my neck.

“Definitely,” she says.

“Werewolves of London” isn’t a slow song, or even a good song, but we make it work, swaying together. Smoothing my hands down her sides, I feel the shape of her. The roll and shift of her warm muscles beneath my palms is hypnotizing.

“This
song,
” she says, raising her voice. People all around us are howling at the top of their lungs. She laughs—pink lips, straight white teeth. “It really sucks!”

“Criminal.”

She points to her head. “My kitty ears are bleeding!”

I laugh because . . . Well, that was cute.

She’s tall even without the four-inch heels on her boots. This close, it’s tough not to stare right into her eyes, so I focus on guiding her hips with my hands until we’re moving in perfect sync. She’s slender but strong. Athletic.

Exactly what I like.

As we dance, her weight settles on my shoulders and she comes closer, her chest brushing against mine. Her costume has a deep V that shows plenty of cleavage. Flawless skin. I’m in trouble. This girl has me under her spell.

“Werewolves of London” fades into a Jay-Z song. With the howling over, the energy around us picks up, but I don’t let go of Catwoman.

She stops dancing and we just stand together in the middle of the chaos of the dance floor. Her smile is gone and she’s so still, it feels like she’s not breathing. The smooth skin along her neck glistens with a sheen of sweat and her pulse there is jumping.

She has to know how much I want her. It’s getting pretty damn obvious.

“So, I’ve been meaning to tell you,” I say, running a hand down her spine to the soft piece of fabric tied near her tailbone. “I really like your tail.”

Her smile comes back. “You do?”

I bring the black ribbon between us. “Yeah. A lot,” I say, running it through my fingers. “It’s the best tail I’ve seen all night. In months, actually.”

It’s the truth. I haven’t seen her face without the mask, but she’s still the hottest thing I’ve seen in a long time.

“Thanks.” She leans back a little, squinting as she looks me up and down. “But what about you? I thought Zorro was supposed to have a sword.”

I can’t help it. I laugh. “You want to see my sword?”

Her eyes snap to mine. She doesn’t say anything, but the answer is right there.

“Want to get out of here?” I ask, but her hand is already sliding into mine.

We weave through the dancing inside, then the party milling outside on the courtyard, to a flagstone path that heads away from the main house. The path splits, the left trail leading to a shadowed gazebo in a far corner of the yard. It’s a decent option but a little too exposed, still in view of the courtyard. But I’ve been here before for dinner, so I know the property and I have a better idea.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

Her hand is cool in mine. Soft skin, firm grip. Out here, I can hear her voice better. It’s feminine and refined. Delicate, like the tap of a knife on crystal.

“Somewhere private.”

I reach the Gallianos’ detached garage and try the door, mentally high-fiving myself when it opens. Inside it’s dark, the only light
coming from a few skylights and the red charging lights of power tools along the back counter.

When I close the door behind us, the noise level from the party fades, leaving only a distant pound of the base from the music. Garage smells fill my nose. Motor oil and car wax. Smells I love.

Catwoman lets go of my hand and faces me, her eyes glittering like diamonds. I wait for my vision to adjust a little more. Then I take her in from head to toe.

She’s beautiful. Long and tight. Curvy in all the right places. She gets better every time I look at her.

“You want to tell me your name?” I ask, because it feels like I should.

Catwoman is quiet for a beat. She shakes her head. “No.”

“Okay. Fine by me.” It’s more than fine, actually. It feels good not to have to explain who I am or what I do. And she’s mysterious this way. Like something I’ve pulled right out of a dream. The masks also make this feel like it’s only about right now, this moment. I get the sense she likes that too.

I step in and take her into my arms. My fingers want to dig into her hips as I bend to kiss her. She feels so good. I don’t remember the last time a girl tested my control this way.

“Wait,” she says. Her hands flatten on my chest and she leans away. “I just want to look at you for another second.”

I nod. “Okay.” I expect her to do what I just did a moment ago—when I studied her body like a present I can’t wait to unwrap—but she looks into my eyes.
Deep
into them like she’s staring at a stirred pond, waiting for something that’s a little murky to come into focus.

Not what I expected—at all—but I make myself stay there and not look away. I need this night. I want her. So I don’t move.

People say eyes are the windows to the soul. I think they’re right, which is why I keep my windows locked and shuttered. Even though
it’s only a second with her blue eyes on mine, maybe two, panic starts to spread inside my chest, a slow, searing burn.

I’m about to look away when Catwoman rolls on her toes and brushes her lips against mine, gentle, feather-light.

My body unlocks. I pull her against me and take what I’ve wanted since the minute I saw her.

Her lips are soft, her tongue softer, and she tastes like berries and cinnamon. She tastes so sweet. I draw her hips against me. She makes a small sound of surprise and pleasure, feeling how she affects me. Then her fingers dig into my lower back as she pushes even closer. Raw lust sweeps over me. I need more of her—now.

I pick her up and get her against the car. I taste her jaw, just beneath her ear, her neck, then I move lower, running my tongue over the perfect swell of her breasts. I brush my thumb over the tight bud I feel through warm leather. “You feel incredible.”

Her hand presses over mine, and she arches her back. “That feels so good, um . . .
Zorro
.”

Then she lets out a small giggle, and I can’t resist looking up. Her smile is gorgeous. I want to keep it there.

“Don Diego de la Vega, if you prefer.” I grin as I pull the car door open and sweep a hand inside. “My lady.”

She climbs into the Gallianos’ Murano.

Inside, she scoots to the far end of the bench seat, making room for me, but I grab her around the waist and tug her to the middle.

“Come here.” I kiss her as I get her legs to each side of me. Hooking my hands under her knees, I slide her close. As soon as we connect, she sucks in a breath, her fingers gripping hard into my shoulders. I hear myself let out a slow hiss as she molds to me.

“Yes,” she breathes. Her hand slides down to my belt, and the last of my self-control goes up in flames.

I lift her back against the seat and capture her mouth with mine, kissing her hard, then force myself to draw back for a second.

“Hold on. We missed a key step here.” I run my hands over her body again. “This needs to come off before I lose my mind.” I don’t feel a zipper or buttons, on her back, or her side, or her stomach. “Did this thing get
sewn
onto you?”

She laughs, and it’s that same crystal-clear sound. “Actually, yes.”

I peer at her. “You’re serious?”

“Yes. Yours comes off, though,” she says, tugging my Zorro peasant shirt off. My mask almost snags and comes off with it. I’m relieved it doesn’t. We’re both under a spell and our faces, our real selves, might break it.

I straighten my mask and study her costume, trying to figure out what I’m seeing in the darkness. I’m considering ripping the damn thing off her when I realize she’s gone quiet and still.

Her gaze is focused on my tattoo, which is lit by a shaft of moonlight streaming in through the rear window like it’s under a spotlight. I shift, searching for a patch of darkness, but she reaches up and stops me.

“This is beautiful,” she says.

Shit.

Her fingers are light as they run down the length of my shoulder. Barely a touch, but I almost jerk away.

“It’s nothing.” It comes out sounding rough. Not like myself. But I want this girl. I don’t want to get pulled into the past.

Catwoman blinks at me. “You don’t like it?”

“I got it as a reminder. Of a mistake.”

That line always shuts down any further questions. I lean down to kiss her, trying to get us back on track.

Catwoman’s touch on my shoulder grows firmer, keeping me back. “Mistakes are everything.”

“Look, can we—what?”

“Mistakes,” she says. “It’s how we learn. Did you learn from it? Because if you did, then you shouldn’t hide it from anyone.”

She must see something in my expression because she looks suddenly self-conscious.

“Sorry, I . . . I don’t mean to take this in a weird, deep direction. I just think it’s beautiful. And I think you should see it that way too, even if it reminds you of a mistake because that’s just really . . .
real
. And, sometimes, real is good, you know?”

I sit back against the seat, my mind blown.

Who
is
this girl?

H
e pulls away from me, and I could kick myself for coming on too strong. I don’t want to derail this moment. I want it to go on and on.

I lean down to brush my lips over the beautiful, strange markings on his chiseled arm. They’re a little like the Escher painting of birds that become sky that become birds, but they’re falling, cascading down his arm and, I imagine, spilling down his back. I breathe in the scent of his aftershave—leather and cloves—and run my hands over his beautiful, solid body.

Give this to yourself,
says the voice in my head.
What can it hurt?

I’m not sure whose voice it is. It doesn’t sound like my own. Maybe it’s Catwoman’s?
My
voice would tell me to slide out of the car, run down the path—preferably without breaking any bones, and
call Philippe to rescue me from myself before I do something impulsive¸ something I might regret.

This is supposed to be about business, about proving to my parents that I’m okay now. That I’m capable of doing what needs to be done. I shouldn’t be here, in the back of this car, with this gorgeous stranger. Should definitely not wrap my legs around his and pull him hard against me. Shouldn’t bring my lips down to his so I can feel his sweet warm breath again, draw his tongue into my mouth, feast on his taste, which is honey and whisky and salt.

But I’m all in, already. I’m voting yes to that voice that says
no one even knows you’re here, Ali. No one knows you’re you
. I’m way off-task from where I started this night, but right now I don’t care about Ethan or Adam Blackwood or due diligence. I’ve never felt this way before. Not swept up like this, tuned into another person so that I wanted him down to his pulse. Not even Ethan.

We kiss and kiss, and I melt against him. We’re slippery—leather against satin—and it’s so maddening. I want to feel his skin, all of its roughness and sleek, muscled planes.

He breaks away, as if surprised by something. Like something’s switched on inside him. He eases me back a bit to look at me, but it’s like he’s actually come closer.

“What do you know about mistakes?” Zorro asks.

I’m surprised he’d bring it up again, but I answer. “Too much,” I say.

I know that the choice of one moment can turn your life inside out, robbing you of everything you thought you wanted. And I know what it’s like to live day after day with the knowledge that you have no one to blame but yourself.

“I know they can eat away at you until it feels like they’re all you have. Like you’ve forgotten everything else about yourself. But this—” I trace my fingers along the bold marks on his skin—“This
also means you’re human, and you’ve lived, and maybe you’re more than whatever choice led you to put this on your body.”

I don’t know if he’s listening to me or if
I
even believe what I’m saying. I’ve been reckless, and I’m doing it again, but this feels different to me. It feels like a gift I’m giving to myself, one that can’t possibly hurt anyone else.

Lacing my fingers behind his neck, I pull him back down to me.

“Kiss me,” I tell him. It’s quiet, and I feel the party throbbing in the house nearby, but I want to be distracted from that, want to just feel his lips and his hands on me again before I take myself back off into the night.

But he hovers there instead, mouth inches from mine, breath tickling my skin. His mouth curves into a smile, and he says, “Tell me something first.”

“What?”

“Anything.” He licks his lips, and the mask makes him look hungry and dangerous. “Something else that’s . . . true.”

“Something true?”

“Yes. Something real . . . Anything.”

“Okay.” This feels so dangerous but tempting too. This whole night is out of time, a bubble removed from the rest of my life. It’s exhilarating to feel hidden and unmasked at the same time. “But only if you do it too.”

“Deal.”

I consider for a moment and then I tell him, “I’m not crazy about people, but I love horses.”

He chuckles, deep in his throat, and even though I’ve never been a funny girl, I feel hungry to get a big full laugh out of him, to see his head thrown back, his face relaxed in pleasure. “Why is that?”

“I guess you know where you are with horses. They’re sly sometimes, but they’re always honest. And when you find the right one,
it’s like this amazing, powerful extension of yourself. Something that trusts you and that you trust in the most perfect way.”

He’s not smiling now but looking at me in that way that moves beyond my words down to some core part of me. And then he frames my face in his hands and kisses me. It’s deeper this time, more giving, his mouth perfect on my own, tongue everywhere, darting, tasting.

We shouldn’t be able to move together like this, tucked in the back of this Murano, but it’s seamless and so hot. He’s hard against me, and my hands travel down to his lower back, moving against him, wishing Philippe hadn’t done such a good job of sewing me into this thing so that I could have him,
really
have him.

Zorro’s mouth moves down to my throat where he dips his tongue into the hollow there. I always feel so birdlike and angular, but his lips change everything, make me feel luscious and perfect.

I want more from him too, I realize. More from this night. It can’t just be his body and his hooded, intense eyes. There’s something there I need to get to, something behind the mask.

“Wait,” I say, though it practically cuts me in two to stop him. I slide out from under him, not at all easy to do, and he sits up on the backseat, slouching against the side window.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his expression concerned. “Was I—”

“No,” I tell him. “You’re perfect. This is—I can’t even tell you how good it feels. It’s just . . . It’s your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Yes.”

I tug him upright and throw my legs over his, straddling him, my leather pants creaking, stretched to their limits. I move close to him, closer, and feel his need for me and know that the warmth of my body where we join tells him all he needs to know about how I feel.

I have to duck toward him so I don’t skim my head on the ceiling of the car, and his eyes travel down to my breasts spilling out of
the perfectly tailored cups of my bodice. Then his hands brace my back and he puts his mouth there again, tongue running along the stitched leather.

“Tell me something true,” I gasp. If I get only one perfect night with a stranger, this is it. And if I’m going to give him some truth of my life, I want one back from him. “Tell me something no one else knows.”

“All right,” he says and settles back against the seat. He’s thoughtful for a long moment. The party noises drift back to us, but they feel farther away now. It’s just the two of us. Just this moment.

“All right,” he repeats, as though gearing himself to some confession. “One true thing.”

But just as he’s about to speak, a grinding mechanical sound fills the space, and the garage door starts to rise.