Smart Man

Smart Man

by

Janet Eckford

Dedication

For those times when you wished fantasy could be a reality for just one night.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are no to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright
© 2012 Janet Eckford

Editor: Stephanie Parent

Cover Art: Shara Azod

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. This is a work of fiction. All references to real places, people, or events are coincidental, and if not coincidental, are used fictitiously. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only. eBooks are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving eBooks is a copyright infringement.

Attraction…

Taking a sip from my dirty martini, I watch him from across the bar. The way his back muscles tense and release as he bends over the pool table makes my fingers tingle at the thought of running my tongue over all of that exquisite maleness. He isn’t one of the regulars at my favorite watering hole. When he leans back up from acing his shot, I can see the sharp angles of his face and the clean, firm line of his jaw. Nope. Definitely not one of the regulars.

          A man this beautiful I would have remembered and quietly obsessed about with my best friend. Looking down at my cell phone, I notice I haven’t gotten any new texts from said best friend. It’s been about thirty minutes since Karen sent off a frantic text saying she was running late to our weekly girl’s night. Sipping at my martini again, I decide with such nice scenery, I can’t be that mad.

          Shifting to re-cross my legs, I freeze at the sensation of being watched. Looking up, I notice Mr. Sexy Pool Player is leaning against the wall, staring in my direction. When his kissable lips form a crooked smile and one of his eyebrows lifts in a slight arch, I know he was most definitely staring at me. Squirming on the inside, I keep my outer visage calm and collected. It’s a technique I’ve mastered over the years as a mediator for the Los Angeles County Courts. The amount of complete fuckery I’ve heard in a given day requires I have the best of the best poker faces.

          Letting my eyes travel over his well-honed body, I make eye contact with him and mirror his expression. When his crooked smile blossoms into a full smile of straight white teeth and utter mischief, I feel my body warm with excitement. I’ve seen enough bad boys in my line of work, and I can tell he’s the baddest of the bad. That part of me that I keep a tight rein on, the one that whispers indecent little pleas of release, unfurls and awakens at the challenge standing across the bar from me. Shifting to turn my back to him and face the bar, I flag down the bartender with a flick of my now empty martini glass.

          “Another dirty?” he asks with a grin.

          He’s new, cute, attentive, and I approve. Karen and I have gone through our fair share of good bartenders and bad bartenders at this particular dive bar, and it looks like we’re on an upswing again.

          “The dirtier the better,” I reply with a wink.

          Blushing slightly and nodding his head, he starts making my drink. Though I watch him intently, I still haven’t forgotten about Mr. Sexy Pool Player staring at me from across the bar. I can practically feel the heat of his gaze on my body. That part of me, the wanton part, revels in the attention of the handsome man. In the dim light of the bar I can tell he’s tall, but once a man is over six feet, the inches all seem to become arbitrary for me. They break down into tall and really tall. Mr. Sexy Pool Player is inching up on the really tall end of the spectrum. The dark fitted shirt he wears accentuates the lean musculature of his chest, and his jeans are fitted in just the way I like on a man. It’s his face that intrigues me, though. I can make out features enough to know they are attractive, but the play of shadows doesn’t allow for anything distinct enough for me to truly make out his face.

          It’s an invitation for exploration, and as I smile at the bartender when he places my drink in front of me, I wonder how I’m going to accept it.

          “Gin or vodka?” a deep baritone whispers into my ear.

          Taking a sip of my drink, letting the textured liquid roll against my tongue, I swallow and look up at the object of my curiosity and smirk.

          “Vodka,” I reply, not turning immediately around.

          He makes a sound in the back of his throat that is both contemplative and sexy as hell. I wonder if he’ll make that same sound as he gazes up at me from between my legs.

          “I’m a gin man,” he comments, moving into my peripheral vision.

          Turning to look at him, I notice how he leans against the bar with an almost feline grace. He is contained energy and combustible fire all in one, and my body tingles at the thought of being pressed against him. It is clear now that the dark part of me, that part of desire and need, is ready to come out to play. Placing my glass down and smiling up at him, I let myself drink in the masculine beauty of his face. There are the same clean lines and sharp angles, but also an undeniable edge of danger and mischief. Oh, he is such a bad boy, and my body moistens at the idea of just how bad he could be.

          “Will that be a problem?” I ask with a voice now gone husky.

          He tilts his head and leans in a little, and I know it’s not because the music of the jukebox has made it hard for him to hear what I said. There is a sharp intelligence in his eyes that tells me he never misses anything. The smile that slowly spreads across his face lets me know that indeed it will not be a problem.

          “I try to make it a habit to never be problematic with beautiful women.”

          I love to flirt. I think of it not only as a meeting of the minds but an extension of the body as well. There is a way one communicates while flirting, a subtle slide of words and inflection of tone that alludes to the gentle glide of limbs and skin upon skin that really gets me hot. It doesn’t really matter what the person is saying to me—he could be reading the dictionary for all I care—but if he has that ebb and flow of sound that awakens and entices all of my senses, I’m primed and ready. His statement wasn’t that clever and it wasn’t the most insightful, but it was delivered in just the right way to have my body humming with anticipation.

          “Smart man,” I reply, leaning in ever so slightly toward him.

          I watch as his twinkling eyes glance ever so briefly at my lips and a little lower to the swell of my breast pushing against my crisp button-up shirt. When his eyes meet mine again, I see the look of appreciation and I heat up even more. He’s smooth, I have to give him that, and the thought of just how smooth he can be causes me to lean a little more toward him.

          “I try,” he chuckles.

          There is a rough quality to the sound that dances across my skin, making me wonder what other parts of him are deliciously rough. I look discreetly at his hands and wonder if they are calloused in texture. I love a man with calloused hands, and I think it would be such a waste if a man with a body that looks as if it was carved from granite didn’t have the hands to match. Looking back up into his face, I know he noticed me looking, and when he discreetly places one of his hands on the bar next to me I smirk at him.

          “I figured the lighting isn’t that great,” he says with that mischievous quality of his.

          Taking that for the invitation it is, I reach over and pick up his hand and trace a finger over his palm. The skin is firm and solid, and though not roughly textured to the point of being leathery, there is enough of bite to the feel of him to let me know he doesn’t spend his days keeping himself pampered. When he steps even closer to me, I jump at the feel of his other hand resting on my knee.

          “What’s good for the goose and all,” he whispers in my ear.

          I should push him away. Play the game of shocked sensibilities and feigned concern, but he’s too hot and I’m too horny.

          “How good for the goose?” I whisper back into his ear as I tug him a little closer.

          I can feel him hard and heavy against my knee. The gentle glide of his hand from my knee under my skirt and to the tops of my thigh-high stockings has me almost panting with need. The little gasp of surprise he lets out once his inquisitive fingers find the delicate lace of my stockings makes me smile.

          “Very good.”

          The resonant tones of his voice send a tingle along my spine, and I have only one thought. Shifting off the barstool, I place a napkin over my drink and give the bartender the eye. The place isn’t quite full enough that I need to worry about my spot, and from the nod of his head I know he’ll have a fresh drink waiting for me when I return. Holding Mr. Sexy Pool Player’s hand firmly in mine, I weave us through the small crowd until we are at the back of the bar. Turning the knob on the storage closet, I sigh with relief when I realize it’s unlocked. It’s often hit or miss, and tonight I’m hoping for a home run.

Fulfillment…

          “You know your way around.”

          Turning to look at him, I notice he still has his bad-boy persona firmly in place, and I don’t take the statement as one of censure.

          “Quite well, actually,” I reply, pulling him into the room.

          Closed in the room, I don’t bother turning on the light. There is a tiny window, and the neon sign of the next building provides enough light for what we are planning.

          “Come here,” he states with a soft growl that lights me up from within.

          Pulling me into his embrace, he crushes his mouth to mine. Like flirting, I love kissing, and there has been many a man that I’ve turned away because of his lack of the fine art of the lip lock. This man, though, this man is a master, and he coaxes a groan from deep within as he plays his lips across mine. Opening for him, I expect the hot, slippery sensation of his tongue dueling with mine, but instead he waits. He nibbles and bites and soothes all at the same time. Those hands, those gloriously calloused hands, hold my face firmly as he dictates the pace and strength of our kisses. I clutch at his hips, hoping to bring him closer to me, to get him to placate the frenzy that he has now built, but he is like a mountain that will not be moved.

          “Don’t tease,” I practically sob when he allows me to come up for air.