Two to Tango (Erotic Romance) (7 page)

My father would walk in, see his mistress naked in the swimming pool, and the shock would register in his eyes. He would turn to look at me with anger and bewilderment.

“Son, what are you doing?” he’d ask. He would definitely call me Son, the way he always did when he was angry at me.

If Skye didn’t know I was my father’s son, she was about to find out.

I would act embarrassed and apologize for my behavior. I’d grab something to cover myself—maybe life preserver, from the nearby wall, and I’d introduce “Dad” to my new “friend,” Skye.

He would decide that I couldn’t have known who she was, because he’d been careful in his sneaking around. He’d turn his head just enough to glance at Skye one last time. Then he’d turn away from her, his face cold, and that would be the end of them.

My father would make a joke to the crowd of people waiting in the hallway, perhaps assuring them that contrary to what they’d seen, pool attire was mandatory at all times. He’d shoo them down the hall to view the steam room, and they’d all enjoy a good giggle.

Problem solved.

He’d learn his lesson to stop chasing girls around, because it made him look like an old fool.

That scenario had only one flaw. Humiliated, and furious with me for deliberately setting this up, Skye would climb out of the pool, put on her clothes, and never speak to me again.

She wouldn’t be wrong, either.

I’d brought Skye down to the pool, hoping she’d get in with me. Few girls could resist that pool, paired with me having my shirt off. I knew my father’s schedule for Open House tours, and he’d arrived right on time.

Problem solved.

Except.

I liked Skye.

She wasn’t just some gold digger after our family’s money.

She had a killer body, a sweet smile, and a velvet voice that seeped inside my body, where it tattooed her name on the surface of my heart. Skye.

The girl clearly had some trust issues, and she’d never forgive me for what I was about to do.

My father flicked on the lights, and suddenly I knew what to do.

I looked over at Skye, whose blue eyes were wincing from the light. Hurriedly, I whisper-shouted to her, “Dive down for one minute. I’ll get rid of them.”

I took two steps away from the pool, cupped my hands over my crotch, and loudly announced, “Well, this is embarrassing.”

My father opened the door, and stopped talking mid-word.

“Hello, sir,” I said. “Someone dropped a handful of pennies in the pool, and I was clearing them out so everything would be in tip-top shape for the Open House.”

The ladies standing near him elbowed each other to get a better look at me, jostling him against the door.

“I got the pennies,” I said. “Just in time. I thought I had another ten minutes to clear out, but you must be running ahead of schedule.”

One of the ladies pushed past the others, nearly stepping into the pool room, but my father caught her with an outstretched arm. “Are you a swimming instructor?” she asked me.

The rest of the ladies, and one man, chimed in with a dozen more questions, about club amenities that I might be involved with.

Keeping my hands in place, I shrugged and said, “I’m just a maintenance worker.”

“That’s right,” my father snapped. “He’s just a guy who keeps things running behind the scenes. Now, if you’ll proceed down the hallway, we’ll come back to the pool in a few minutes.”

He shot me a malevolent look that gave me goosebumps all over. I held his gaze with my own stare, resisting the urge to check on Skye and draw his attention to her.

“Yes, sir. A few minutes, and I’ll be cleared right out.”

Why wasn’t he going? He kept standing there. If he turned and looked more closely at the pool, which was brightly lit from above and below, he’d see Skye, or at least the top of her head, under the water.

A bubble popped, and then another. The sound was clear and unmistakeable. She must have exhaled. More bubbles burst.

Slowly, my father tore his eyes off me and began to push the door further open.

I flung my hands up, away from my crotch. Now Major Tom and the ground control duo were happily flashing the crowd.

Now what?

Waving one hand in the air like an idiot with no self awareness, I yelled, “Seeya later, folks! Thanks for—“

I didn’t have to finish the sentence, because the door was already slammed shut.

Skye surfaced, sputtering water and taking a big gasp of air.

I knelt next to her and helped her up and out of the pool. She wore nothing but a pair of panties, the sight and touch of her athletic body awakening me again.

“My fucking bra,” she muttered.

“I’ll get it.” I grabbed the pool cleaner net from the wall and retrieved the black garment.

By the time I turned around, she already had the red dress pulled on and was wrestling her way into the matching jacket, her dress only half zipped. Her brown hair dripped with pool water, darkening the red fabric.

She snatched the wet bra from my hand and tucked it into a pocket, avoiding meeting my eyes.

“I could have gotten you a towel,” I said.

She shook her head, drips of water still running down her face. The last remnants of her makeup streaked her flushed cheeks. I’d never seen anyone as lovely as Skye, soaking wet, trying to get her foot into a shoe.

“No, thank you,” she said coolly. “I can take care of myself, just fine.”

“You’re not running out on me, are you?”

Still avoiding my eyes, she said, “I shouldn’t have come here tonight. I don’t belong here, with all these rich assholes.”

“Not all of them are assholes.”

She got one shoe on, and finally looked over at me, her pale blue eyes full of sadness.

“I’m not the kind of person you were with tonight,” she said. “This is not how things are done, and not how I live.” She held one hand over her chest. “Me…”

“Skye, I don’t care about the past.”

She blinked at me, her expression unreadable.

I continued, “You’ve obviously got some boundaries issues, and that’s okay. Let me help you. How about we get dinner tomorrow night?”

“I’m busy.”

“The next night?”

“Also busy. I have a job. Responsibilities.”

I flashed her my most charming smile. “How about breakfast? What’s your last name? What’s your phone number? What do you do when you’re not crashing Open Houses for free cheese cubes?”

She pointed to the pool. “I lost my earring. Can you get it for me? I can see it, right there.”

I walked over to the pool’s edge, holding one hand over the crack in my ass, hoping she would think it was funny.

“Where’s your earring?” I asked.

“Right in front of you. Just hop in and you’ll feel it with your foot.”

I jumped into the water and shuffled forward and back, then side to side, sweeping the bottom of the pool with my foot. “If you don’t want dinner or breakfast, how about a light snack?” I squinted down at something glinting, then took a breath so I could look underwater and cover the area more quickly with a visual. No earring.

I surfaced, wiping the water from my face. “Skye, this might sound crazy, but I don’t think you were wearing any earrings.”

I was talking to myself, though.

She was gone.

In the spot where she had been standing was one shoe. One sexy, crazy, spike-heeled shoe.

I didn’t have her last name, or her phone number, or anything at all, except the memory of her lips on mine, and of her legs wrapped around my waist, her sweet cries of ecstasy… and one shoe.

Skye
 

APRIL
 

It was in March that I first went to The Cedars and met Charlie.

I thought I’d be able to put him out of my head, but even in mid-April, I was still thinking about him and the moment we’d shared.

Sitting in the cluttered office the instructors shared at the community center, I’d stare at the fitness calendar on the bulletin board and think about sex.

The poster boy for March was an underwear model named Keith Raven, and he made me have wicked thoughts. The April boy, a fireman, didn’t do as much for me. The fireman looked like he rescued people, and I didn’t fantasize about being rescued. Keith looked like a guy who knew when to shut up. And his triceps looked just like Charlie’s.

I slipped off my light cardigan, my body heat rising with too many thoughts about Charlie. I clasped one of my hands in the other, thinking of how I’d waltzed once around the pool with him—without music, to our own rhythm.

Then I’d wrapped my legs around him in the pool, let my panties “accidentally” slip to the side, and literally begged him to fuck me.

He’d said something about licking salt water off my skin until he was delirious and dehydrated.

“Charlie, shut up and fuck me before we both turn thirty,”
I’d said.

A smile crept onto my face, and my body felt too hot and too cold at once.

I could call him. I could just pick up the phone and tap in the number for The Cedars. Even if they had a dozen guys named Charlie working there, it wouldn’t be tough to figure out which one was him.

But I wouldn’t call him, because he couldn’t be my Prince Charming.

I didn’t know anything about the guy, aside from the physical stuff. And I’d fucked him within an hour of meeting him. You just can’t recover from that.

With my students, I pay very close attention to how the first class runs. I lay down the rules, and enforce them without hesitation. No gum. No talking when I’m talking. And no giving the other girls
side-eye
. They’re allowed to be late, since they don’t have control over their parents who drive them in, but
I do not tolerate side-eye.

I don’t have nearly as many rules for dating. In fact, I just have two: I insist on paying my own way, and there’s no touching below the navel for at least three dates. Apparently, that last rule goes out the window if I’ve had a couple glasses of champagne… and if the guy is Charlie.

Charlie.

I could call him. But I was broke, and couldn’t pay my way for the cheapest of dates. Plus he’d expect a blowjob, at the very least. Not that I didn’t like the idea of that, but we’d started off wrong, and a hookup was all I’d ever be to him.

Gloria walked into the office, a bundle of pink Gerbera daisies in her hand. I day-dreamed the flowers were from Charlie, and he’d somehow tracked me down and sent me flowers as a romantic gesture.

She took a green, hourglass-shaped vase down from the top of our overstuffed coat wardrobe, and poured her bottled water in before neatly arranging the flowers.

“When are you going to call that guy?” she asked.

“Never.”

Gloria put one graceful hand on her hip. Gloria has perfect hips—more round and feminine than mine, but not so big that she’d have to get alterations on her clothes, like our other co-worker, Teena.

“Mm-hmm.” Gloria arched one thin, dark eyebrow at me, her almond-shaped eyes flickering with amusement.

She’s two years younger than me, but sometimes I swear she’s twenty-seven going on seventy-two. She acts like she’s seen everything and done everything, just because she’s been married and divorced already. I adore Gloria, and she’s my closest friend, but she has a tendency to get into other people’s business.

“Who got you flowers?” I asked, trying to change the topic away from my non-existent love life.

“They’re from your guy, Charlie. I went on up to The Cedars and gave him all your numbers.”

I looked around for something to throw at her.

She dodged the yellow pad of Post-It notes.

Laughing, she said, “You know I didn’t, but I should have. These are from the grocery store. They were just going to throw them out, can you believe it?”

I leaned back in the swivel chair and fanned my face with my hand.

Gloria took a seat on the desk, right on top of my piles of papers. “Skye, you need to do something different. You can’t keep doing the same things and expecting more, you know? No man is gonna spread a little butter on your bread if you’re parked in this office day in and day out.”

“What? Butter on my bread? Gloria, you’re talking like a weird grandma again.”

She rolled her dark brown eyes. “At least I don’t say things like
awesomesauce
or
amazeballs
.”

I whispered, “Those are Teena’s favorite words.”

She whispered back, “Teena washes her private parts with salad dressing.”

I snorted. “She does not.”

Gloria held up one hand. “I swear on a stack of bibles. I was at her house and I saw the bottle on the edge of the tub, so I asked.”

“Shut up. No.” I grabbed a blue pen and nibbled on the cap. “What flavor?”

“Olive oil and balsamic vinegar. She told me she’s allergic to soap, but she likes to be fresh.”

“No!” I gasped.

She grinned and reached over to take the blue pen away from me. “Do I need to put that bitter spray on
all
of our pens and pencils? Can’t you control yourself?”

I gave her a sheepish grin. “Sorry. We dipped all the pens, but I got used to the taste, I guess. At least I’m not biting my nails anymore.”

She put the chewed-on pen into the chipped mug with the rest of the chewed-on pens and pencils. “No wonder we have budget problems. You’re eating all our stationery.”

“How bad?” I asked. Gloria taught kids’ art classes part-time, and also worked in the administration office at the other end of the building, in the accounting department.

She didn’t answer, but replied with another question. “Did you get anywhere with those grant applications?”

I wiggled a stack of papers to pull the corner out from under Gloria’s hip, then held it up for her to read the giant NO written on the front. I pulled away that stapled stack to reveal another NO, and then a NO WAY.

“We don’t qualify for anything,” I said. “First of all, you practically have to be a lawyer to understand the fucking terms, and then you get to the end of the application and find out you’re already disqualified, because you’re half a mile outside the catchment. Or worse, that it isn’t a grant after all, but a high-interest loan you have to repay in five years, or they come and repossess all the children and sell them to factories in some third world country, where they’ll be forced to make novelty birdhouses, and Christmas decorations, and all those penis-shaped things people give the bride at bachelorette parties. Honestly. Won’t someone think of the poor children?”