Page 29 of Bombshells
“Fine, but I won’t be showing any skin,” Charli grumbles. “I’m in it for the open bar.”
“I’m in it for the new dress,” Fiona chirps. “I can hear Bloomingdale’s calling my name. Are you with me, Sylvie?”
“I’m in,” I decide. It’s been a long time since I got dressed up for an occasion. And maybe Fiona has a point. “You can help me find the dress. Bryce isn’t going to know what hit him.”
“That’s my girl,” she says, refilling my glass.
I swivel around in my seat and glance toward Bryce. He’s leaning on the bar, deep in conversation with Petra the bartender. He doesn’t notice that I’m studying him and trying to predict his reaction when I arrive at the party in a low-cut dress I picked out just for him.
It occurs to me that Bryce isn’t very interested in dancing. But I’ll convince him.
Another man catches me gazing in that direction, though. It’s Anton, of course, who doesn’t miss a chance to notice every silly thing that happens to me.
He gives me a friendly wink and turns back to his boys.
I pick up my margarita and raise my glass. “To teaching the men of Brooklyn a few new tricks.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Charli raises her glass.
“Cheers!” Fiona yells as our glasses clink together. “Bottoms up, girls. I’ll buy the next round.”
* * *
A couple hours later we put Scarlet in a taxi, and we walk Charli to the subway. “Where are you living, anyway?” Fiona asks her.
“I found a place. It’s a few stops away.” She waves off the question. “See you at practice.”
Fiona and I walk home together. The cool air sobers me up.
Or so I thought. When I’m safely in my bed, I have unusual dreams. They’re very sexual. A pair of hands unzips my dress. Bryce says “Désolé,” in my ear. Sorry. But an apology isn’t what I want, so I say, “Keep going.”
He doesn’t, and I wake up, frustrated.
Thanks, tequila.
When I roll over onto my back, the dream continues. There’s kissing. And strong hands remove my underwear, sliding it down my body in a sensuous pass of silk on bare skin.
Those hands pass over my breasts. And then he kisses his way down my body, thrilling me. My legs are parted, and a hot, eager mouth lands exactly where I want it.
I arch my back and moan. Yes. Finally. More. And then I look down to watch this wonderfulness in action.
He lifts his head to give me a smoldering glance. But it’s not Bryce who’s pleasuring me. It’s Anton, with his wicked smile, and those brilliant, heavy-lidded eyes.
I wake up with a start, sweating and turned on. I let out a quiet groan of frustration and notice that dawn has already arrived to leak pale light into my bedroom.
I sit up, grab the glass of water beside my bed, and take a gulp. My body is deeply confused. In the first place, it forgot how to lunge for pucks. But I’m working on it.
It also craves sex. I blame Bryce and his ridiculous hesitation to take the next step with me.
And Anton Bayer’s appearance in my dreams? That’s on me. All the man did was buy me some Chinese food and talk me out of my snit. He didn’t hit on me. And he sure as hell didn’t…
The image that assaults me is so vivid that I clench my thighs together, as if that would soothe the ache I’m feeling.
I drain the rest of the water. When I turn to put the empty glass back down on the table, I notice a hair pin on the wooden surface, glinting in the early morning light.
“Really, Maman?” I whisper. “What on Earth are you trying to suggest? Should I be encouraged? Patient?”
As usual, she doesn’t say.
