Getting It Right!. Rhonda Nelson
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She chewed the corner of her bottom lip and grinned. “If nothing else, do him for the foreplay. His name has come up quite frequently in my line of work and from what I hear, Ben’s got a master’s in tongue massage.”
And just like that, April cast Ben in the starring role of her own mental porn movie. Warm hands and warmer skin, a hot greedy mouth… Her thighs tensed and the slightest buzz of a tingle pinged her sex. And it was that little ray of hope that ultimately pushed her over the edge, conquered reason and thwarted doubt.
She wanted.
And she’d always wanted him.
“Go on,” Frankie cajoled, evidently sensing victory. “Go talk to him.”
“Fine,” April finally relented. “But not tonight.”
“But—”
“Not tonight,” she repeated firmly. “What?” she said grimly under her breath. “You want me to walk up to him and tell him that I’m in need of some of his whispering skills?” She rolled her eyes. “Hardly. I need a plan first. I’ve got to have something to offer in return.” What, she didn’t know. Ben was a top-notch and well-paid photographer whose work had been featured in prominent glossies all over the globe. Money wasn’t going to cut it. He didn’t need it anymore.
Frankie’s eyes bugged. “You mean sleeping with you isn’t going to be payment enough? He wants you. You are what he gets.”
“No,” April said, lost in her own thoughts. “That’s not how I want to handle this.”
Frankie harrumphed and looked at her as though she’d grown a second head. “You’re insane.”
“Yeah, well, you try going without an orgasm for eighteen months and see how rational you are.”
Her friend made a moue of understanding and conceded the point. “There is that.” She paused. “But you are going to ask him for help, right? Promise me,” she insisted.
April nodded and let go a pent-up breath. She sought Ben out once more and the hair on the back of her neck prickled when her gaze unexpectedly tangled with his. That hot, familiar stare and the faint crook of his ultra-sexy lips seemingly pinned her to her seat. Without warning, the air thinned in her lungs, her skin instantly warmed and tightened, and that woeful tingle below her navel issued another faint buzz of desperation.
“I promise,” she said breathlessly.
And she secretly hoped like hell she didn’t live to regret it.
1
“YOU’VE GOT A CALL on line one and a visitor in the parlor.”
Ben Hayes wearily set the loupe aside he’d been using to study yesterday’s negatives and rubbed his eyes. Shit, he thought as he leaned back in his chair. Complete and total shit. None of it even worth developing.
“Who’s on the phone?”
Claudette’s proud Cajun-French chin lifted into a stubborn, I-dare-you angle, one that Ben recognized all too well. It was reserved for one caller, in particular. “Your father.”
Though he’d expected it, Ben felt himself tense, nonetheless, then had to force himself to relax. “Tell him I’m not here.” His tone was flat, emotionless, and in no way hinted at the anger, hopelessness and regret that twisted his insides.
“Too late,” his meddling secretary replied. “I’ve already told him you are.”
“Then tell him I’m in a meeting.”
Her thin nostrils flared as she pulled in a breath. Of patience, no doubt. Apparently running interference between him and his father was beginning to wear on her otherwise steely nerves. “He’s already asked if you were in a meeting and I said no.” The merest hint of a smile caught the corner of her compressed lips. “Looks like he’s onto all of your excuses.”
“Fine. You can tell him the truth.” He shrugged. “Tell him I don’t want to talk to him.” Another lie. He’d love to talk to his father. Tell him how things were going. Basically shoot the shit and share a beer. Perks he knew other men enjoyed with their dads. But, despite his best attempts to get past the…complexities of his father’s character, he simply couldn’t do it. He’d tried…and he’d failed. And since failure was such an uncommon and unpleasant experience, he’d rather avoid it.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Claudette finally snapped. “I’ll tell him no such thing. He’s your father. You should talk to him.”
He did talk to him. On birthdays and holidays. “Claudette,” he began warningly.
“Oh, fine,” she begrudgingly relented. “I’ll make up another excuse, tell the dear man another lie.” She aimed a hard stare at him, one that seemed particularly intense considering she wore a tiny brooch with a picture of her beloved dog on her collar. “But this is the last time, Ben.” She exhaled mightily. “Now what do you want me to do about the girl in the parlor? Tell her you’re not in, as well?” she asked sarcastically.
Relief melted the tension out of his muscles, causing him to slouch back in his tufted leather chair. He arched a brow. “Depends,” he said. “Who is she and what does she want?”
“Her name is April Wilson and, as for what she wants, you’ll have to ask her yourself. She said it was personal.”
Ben blinked, certain he’d misunderstood. “April Wilson?”
“Yes,” Claudette replied cautiously, obviously sensing his surprise. “Do you know her?”
Ben felt a grim smile catch the corner of his mouth. Oh, yeah. He knew her. He could identify every freckle on her face, knew the exact curve of her brow, the varying shades of green that made up those wide expressive eyes of hers. He knew that purple was her favorite color, black-eyed Susans her favorite flower, and that when she was nervous or tense, she had a tendency to chew the corner of her plump bottom lip. He knew that she liked to wear her hair up, that as a teenager she had a huge crush on Rick Springfield and that she was missing a nail on her left pinkie toe. A biking accident, if memory served, and admittedly, his rarely failed where April was concerned.
In fact, he’d probably be a lot happier if it would.
Despite years of separation and countless substitutes, despite time, distance, a complicated family history—Ha! he thought darkly—and more sex than any man had a right to in a lifetime, April Wilson still remained, and he grimly suspected would always remain, the girl for him.
She’d unwittingly set the standard, and was the one woman every other he’d crossed paths with was compared to. For more than a decade he’d been trying to recreate the magic, to find the same sort of chemistry he’d had with her. The mind-numbing, soul-shattering attraction that made a man want to climb out of his own skin and into hers.
He’d never found it.
Hell, he’d never even come close to capturing that same sort of feeling, that awesome, unbelievable high. In fact, he’d all but convinced himself that it hadn’t really existed, that his teenage über-hormones had somehow magnified and distorted the memory until it couldn’t possibly be real.
But one chance meeting at the Blue Monkey Pub eighteen months ago had soon proved otherwise, and over the past year and a half, he’d made a concerted effort to be there on Friday nights just to look at her, share the same air, feel the buzz of her presence.
Pathetic, he knew, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Though he was no longer the green, easily intimidated boy he’d been when her cruel bitch of a mother had banned him from her life, Ben had nevertheless resisted the almost overwhelming urge to seduce her. To see if she could still make the bottom drop out of his stomach with a mere smile.
He’d learned that she could, even when that smile wasn’t directed at him.
Which was why, over the past couple of weeks,