Leather and Lace

Thank you so much for all of your comments on the first chapter. I know it started pretty quickly, but I promise you plenty of character development (and more length) in the rest of the chapters. I hope you like this one!

- Ada

<<>><<>><<>>

I wake up to a feeling I haven't realized I've been missing: a strong, protective arm slung over my hip, a naked leg tangled with mine, a warm chest pressed against my back. There's a brief moment of disorientation, when I'm unsure of where I am and who I'm with, but then I spot a leather jacket slung over the back of an armchair and the previous night's events come rushing back to me.

Gabriel's bedroom blinds are closed, so I have no idea how long we've been sleeping, but I can hear the pitter-patter of heavy raindrops hitting the glass. It's a soothing, familiar sound I love. Perfect for a Saturday morning... Especially with a warm, solid body snugly curled around mine.

But why am I even still here? Why hadn't he woken me up when I'd fallen asleep on the couch and sent me back home? Or he could have left me sleeping in the living room... He could have covered me with a blanket and called it good. If he'd carried me up and then encouraged me to have sex with him, it would have made more sense to me. But cuddling all night and waking up together seemed so intimate, so private.

And we haven't even known each other for half a day.

My mom used to tell me that you can tell a lot from a man just by looking at his hands. I find myself staring at the one resting on my stomach. It's pretty big, very lightly tanned. His fingers are long and almost elegant, while still remaining very masculine. There's a little bit of hair.

And I spot, on the inside of his wrist, a tiny tattoo: a cursive, lightly decorated capital "B" with tiny wings on either side.

It seems his mom isn't the only one who likes angels. Or birds. But what is the B for?

There's so much I don't know about the man sleeping next to me.

I consider extricating myself from his arms, disentangling our limbs. Getting dressed, tip-toeing downstairs. Hoping the dog doesn't bark. Perhaps leaving my number on his counter, just in case.

But then he stretches out a little before mumbling into my ear. "G'morning, Eve." His voice is low, sleepy, and sexy as ever.

I clear my throat.

Why does he have to be so perfect?

Leave it to me to sound like a disgusting mess the morning after. "Good morning." I'm also very original upon waking.

It's quiet for so long, I start to think he's drifted off again.

"I've noticed you, in your apartment." His voice is so low I barely catch all the words.

Okay, that's definitely not what I was expecting.

"What? You know where I live?" I wriggle a little farther from him and roll over to glare at him. I can't help but smiling just a bit at his all-too-innocent expression.

He laughs at my slight panic. "You're directly across the road from me. You don't always close your blinds."

"You

watch

me?" I squeak out.

"'Course I don't

watch

you. I've just seen you in your kitchen. Come on, you can't tell me you haven't peeked into people's lives now and then, right?"

I don't say anything, because of course, I have. And now that I realize his bedroom is opposite my kitchen window, I shamefully recall the handsome guy I'd sometimes glimpsed walking to his closet in just a low-slung towel. It's funny how that's worked out.

"Didn't think so," he chuckles as he draws me closer into his embrace.

"You're even better up close," I confess in a whisper.

"So are you." He tilts my face upward and claims my mouth. He tastes sweet, even after sleep. "This is infinitely better than fantasizing about it."

I just moan in response, slinging a leg over his hip in an urge to get closer. He caresses my bottom lip between his.

With a little groan of his own, he pushes me gently away. "I'm going to go pee and put on the kettle. Then breakfast?"

I nod, hiding my disappointment well. But after he's closed the bathroom door, I let my insecurities overwhelm me.

Why doesn't he want me? My appearance, my style? I know I'm probably not even close to his type, but he

seems

to be attracted to me. Or maybe he isn't, and that's why he doesn't want to have sex with me. He doesn't want to get too involved, to make me feel like I've got some sort of claim over him. That'd be understandable.

Or maybe he's just a genuinely sweet, conscientious man. But for now it's so much safer for me to pretend he isn't.

Sitting up in his bed, still tangled in the sheets, I see my reflection in a mirror on the opposite wall. I try to smooth my long chestnut waves, which never manage to cooperate for more than a few hours. I like the way I look in his navy blue button-down.

Maybe if I'd worn more makeup, maybe some eyeliner, I muse, still trying to figure out what had gone wrong. Maybe if I had put on heels and a tighter dress.

Then I shake my head in disgust. Why am I doing this to myself? I shouldn't have to change just to suit a guy who, even if he

was

desperately attracted to me, would have been just a one-night stand. I'm worth so much more than that.

So I pull myself together, get dressed. Wonder what the neighbors will think if they see me march across the street in my wrinkled cardigan and the remnants of last night's hairdo and mascara.

I manage to make it through most of my cereal (having declined waffles or eggs, which sound delicious but would keep me in his house longer than necessary) and another cup of tea before the dreaded talk begins.

"Eve..." I know already. I can tell by his tone.

"I know," I say, poking at the last few pieces of corn flakes. "I wasn't expecting anything to come of this, anyway. You don't have to explain."

"Oh."

"Right, so I'll just rinse this out, and grab my purse, and—"

"Actually, I was wondering... I mean, if you'd rather not see me again, I completely understand, but... Are you doing anything tomorrow evening?"

I stare at him, my lips perhaps a tiny bit parted in shock.

"Oh, wow. Um... Actually, I am. I have a dinner," I reply, and see Gabriel's flicker of disappointment. "Maybe... Maybe during the week? I get home around seven every day."

And his smile is back. "That'd be great! Will you come over at seven thirty on Tuesday?"

"Come over here?" I say stupidly.

"If you want. Yes. We could cook dinner together."

I picture us together in the kitchen, most definitely not cooking a meal. Not the way he's got in mind, anyway. I nod slowly.

He walks me to the door, kisses me sweetly on the lips. No roaming hands, no tongue. A gentlemanly kiss goodbye.

But it nevertheless leaves me lightheaded, and I stumble a little on my way into the street. I think any touch of his would have an effect on me.

<<>><<>><<>>

"No symptoms of assholitis?"

I shake my head, smiling.

"Clean house?"

I nod. Of course he would ask!

"No skeletons in the closet?"

"None."

"Honey, are you sure? Did you check?"

"Ronnie! I've told you everything I know. I don't know him very well yet. Certainly not well enough to go snooping around in his closet."

"A man's wardrobe is essential, Evs."

I chuckle around a fork of salad. Of course he's more concerned with Gabriel's sense of style than with his romantic history.

"I'll report back to you on Wednesday," I promise. "Now stop patronizing me and let me devour my pasta in peace!" Of course I really enjoy his teasing and find his advice endearing—and he's well aware of that. But we can cover the topic more extensively after dinner, because my spinach ravioli really does look mouth-wateringly enticing.

"Sorry, sorry! You know I'm just looking out for you." But he quiets down a bit and tucks into his own generous bowl of lasagna.

Sunday night dinners with my best friend Ronnie have become somewhat of a tradition. It's been months since one of us had canceled—though I guess a couple of weeks ago it was moved to Saturday because Ronnie's brother had gotten married on Sunday. Funerals and weddings, and almost nothing else, are allowed to get between our ritualistic meals. We take turns choosing cool hole-in-the-wall restaurants, then revisit our favorites periodically. Tonight, we're at an Italian place we've come back to every couple of months for years.

"So how about you, hmm? Any success with..." I crinkle my forehead as I try to remember his date's name. "Joseph? Joey? Gerald?"

"Jonathan," he corrects, rolling his eyes. "Though I'm allowed to call him Jonny already."

"Ooooh," I say suggestively.

"Yeah," he giggles. "Much better than Mark.

Much

better in bed."

"Ronald! On the third date? Really, I'm appalled."

"Oh, shut up, Evs. At what ungodly hour of the morning did you stumble back to your lonesome little doorstep yesterday morn?"

I blush and take a bite of my ravioli instead of responding.

"That's what I thought," he says smugly.

"God...How horrible of a person does that make me?"

"It doesn't make you horrible at all! Eve, you are

so

not allowed to beat yourself up over this. This was the first date you've had in, what... four months?"

"Seven." My voice is suddenly small.

"Damn. Yeah, hon, you

needed

that. And it's not as though it was a one-nighter. He's cooking you dinner in two days! He's obviously enamored of you."

"If only!"

"You'll see, love."

<<>><<>><<>>

I decide that five minutes late is the ideal time to arrive for the dinner-date at Gabriel's house. Since it's not at a restaurant or theater or some other public place, he doesn't have to wait awkwardly, paranoid about the possibility of having been stood up. Not that I think he's ever—or would ever be—stood up.

And, most importantly, I wouldn't feel as over-eager. Which, of course, I'm destined to feel anyway.

So I arrive "promptly" at seven thirty-five, announcing myself with a timid knock. I hear Megs give a couple of friendly woofs and then I can detect the rhythmic thud of his footsteps moving down the hall. I wipe my hands on my skirt, suddenly very nervous.

He pulls open the door, a warm smile on his face, and stands aside to beckon me in. "Hi, Eve, come on in. How are you?"

"Thanks. Hello. I'm, uh, doing really well. I actually finished work early for once today. Oh, and here..." I try to push a little gift bag into his arms. "I brought you this... It's just a tiny thing, really. Some tea." Well, now I've gone and told him what I'd picked out. If he didn't know I'm nervous from my fidgeting, he can tell from my inability to censor anything I say. And why the hell had I even wrapped the damn thing?

"Wow, thanks! You didn't have to bring anything, but God knows I never turn down tea." There's that certain, charming twinkle in his eye that's been present in all of my fantasies of the past forty-eight hours. And there have been quite a few. "Here, I'll hang this up before Megs sheds all over it."

I've missed his hands, even if he barely grazes my neck as he reaches for my pea coat and helps me out of it.

"Hey, you look lovely." His voice is different. Lower. I meet his gaze and nearly combust again.

"Thanks," I mumble through a weak smile, glancing down at the blouse and skirt I selected. "Er... Did you manage to fix your motorcycle?"

As I ask I take a step, starting to move further down the hall and into the living room, but he props his arm against the wall, blocking me in.

What's he getting at? Does he want to kiss me

here

? Against his hallway bookcase?

"Didn't you see it parked outside?" he inquires huskily.

There's electricity in the air when I turn to face him fully. I stare at him, dropping my eyes to his lips as he moves closer, inch by slow, agonizing inch.

I shake my head. "Other things on my mind." Like the way his full, parted lips are centimeters from mine.

Finally—I say finally, even though I haven't been in his presence for more than thirty seconds—he tilts his head in for a proper kiss. He doesn't expect the way I latch onto him, though, the past days' pent-up desire for him culminating in these moments. When I step closer to him, he pushes me back against the wall. Roughly.

Now that I've gotten a taste, and he's obviously responding positively, I can't stop myself. I tear my lips from his, only to attack his neck as my hands pull up his t-shirt. I didn't know I possess this sort of passion, but I can't get enough of him.

Despite my lack of experience, I seem to be doing rather well. His breath's already ragged when he moves his lips to my neck, keeping his hands pressed against the bookcase for support as I deftly unbuckle his belt.

I feel like I'm floating above the scene, watching him as he slams me against the shelf again, causing a couple of books to tumble to the floor. Though I've never felt this alive in my life, I feel like a stranger to myself. He's gripping my ass, setting me partway onto a shelf as he continues ravaging my mouth, and pushing his way forcefully between my legs.

I don't do this. Ever. I'm the girl who goes on a few dinner dates and, when all the conventional topics of conversation have been exhausted, I

might

allow the guy to invite me upstairs. We have sex in his room, on his bed, mostly in missionary. There's no expectation of me staying over on either of our parts. That'd be far too intimate.

So lifeless, so sterile compared to everything that had happened to me with Gabriel so far.

It happens so quickly now. He gathers my skirt up impatiently as I grab fistfuls of his hair. My panties are moved aside, not taken off. He inserts three fingers without warning, making me gasp. I move my hands down and fumble with his zipper. We don't bother pushing his pants and boxers off his hips. We don't have time for that.

He pauses suddenly, and his fingers leave me as quickly as they entered. I whimper anxiously as he pulls something from his pocket. A condom. I sober up a little. Right. A rubber is a good idea. The few seconds it takes him to roll it on allow me to inhale a couple of times.

Then he looks me directly in the eye, waiting for confirmation. I reach for him.

With an animalistic growl, he immediately thrusts all the way in, leaving me breathless once again. I'm so full; he fills me so completely. Tantalizingly slowly, he withdraws, only to drive his hips against me once more. Pain is replaced by contentment, and then a longing for more. With every push, I'm knocked against the shelf, and we cause a couple more things to topple over. All I can do is grip onto his shoulders as he starts to fuck me mercilessly.

I marvel at the way his arms flex with his effort, the way the tattoo that swirls around his upper arm shifts with his muscles. The way his plain black v-neck is the perfect amount of tight, hugging his chest. Who knew clothes could be more appealing than naked skin during sex?

"Gab—" I start, but then he rams into me again, and all hope for coherency is lost. "F-

fuuuck..."

"Unhhh," he grunts against my mouth, beginning to move faster. "Oh, God... Eve..."

I contract around him, biting into his shoulder to keep from crying out. A garbled yelp still escapes as my pleasure consumes me.

He pounds into me relentlessly, two, three, four times before he follows me with his own orgasm, bellowing my name as his hands leaving the shelf to grab my ass and squeeze me tightly to him.

We stand there, panting, clinging to one another as we try to recover. My head is whirling.

"Won't you come in?" he pants into my ear. "I was just getting started on a salad."

I giggle, then whimper as he finally withdraws, zipping up his jeans. He gently adjusts my dress before leaning into me again.

"I was going bloody mad from wanting you so badly," he growls.

"I know how you feel... I've never felt this way before," I admit softly. Our passion has made me bold, but still I watch his reaction cautiously. His eyes grow tender, such a contrast from the carnality that had possessed him just moments before.

I straighten his t-shirt, smiling at him, and then he helps me stand up. Not surprisingly, my legs are still incredibly wobbly as he leads me into the living room.

<<>><<>><<>>

He really had been starting a salad. The romaine is drip-drying in a strainer, the washed vegetables have been set onto the cutting board. I begin chopping mushrooms as he prepares some salmon he intends to bake.

"The secret is the garlic butter," he informs me as he liberally brushes it on.

I smile at him bending over the fish. "Have you always enjoyed cooking?"

"No, but I have for a few years now."

"Well, you seem to have learned pretty quickly! It smells delicious, and nothing but the rice is even cooking yet."

"Just wait," he says through a smile. "How about you though, Eve? What do you enjoy?"

"I like cooking, too, though I'm hardly good at it... Baking is more my thing, I suppose."

"That's perfect. I love dessert," he assures me with a devilish grin. "What else?"

"Umm... Singing, reading."

"Really? You sing?"

"Is it that so surprising?" I ask.

"Well, no, I suppose it really shouldn't be. You have a lovely voice, even when you're just speaking normally."

"God, don't flatter me. I'm certainly not amazing at it, but I love doing it, and the group I sing with hasn't banned me from their meetings yet."

"They'd be crazy to. I can't imagine any sane person denying you anything." I look up from the mushrooms and see him looking at me pretty intensely. His still disheveled hair is driving me crazy. Maybe because I know what—or who—had mussed it in the first place.

I bite my bottom lip and my cheeks flush again. I quickly ask him how it was to grow up in England.

"I enjoyed it immensely. I've almost always been very close with my family."

"Then what made you decide to move to Washington instead? It must have been difficult to leave all of that behind..." I, for one, couldn't imagine having abandoned the Pacific Northwest while my parents were still alive. Even now it'd be hard to uproot myself.

"I studied architecture in London, but quit school in my third year. It just wasn't for me," he adds quickly, before I can ask. "I really needed a fresh start, and I'd fallen in love with Seattle when I came to visit my sister after high school. She's three years older than I am and moved here to attend the university right after she graduated."

I wonder how it took him three years to come to the realization that college wasn't right for him, but it's obvious that he doesn't feel like elaborating.

"That's nice, that you've got your sister here with you. My brother lives here as well. We're really close."

"Yeah, I thought I remembered you saying something about a brother... So what do you do? For a living, I mean? That is, if you feel like moving on to the boring, technical stuff already."

"It's not nearly as exciting of a story," I warn him. "I graduated from the UW two years ago and got a job at a firm. I've been working nonstop since then, trying to gain a solid footing at the company."

"Ah, so that's why you were driving home at midnight," he says apologetically.

I grimace and nod, even though I'd never been happier about having to work late. Not after who I'd encountered on my drive home. "Pathetic, isn't it? I hardly leave myself time for anything else."

"Well, I don't know about that! At least you have a date tonight, and you had another one on Sunday! That's more than I have in a six month period."

"Oh, no," I tell him, laughing, and explain my "dates" with Ronnie.

But I didn't miss his statement about not going on very many dates. And is that relief in his eyes when he discovers I'm far from Ronnie's type?