Adam's Apple (Touch of Tantra #1) (17 page)

“Who knew you were such the masochist?” Damn, I love teasing this woman. It really turns me on. Well everything about her does, but this challenging part of her really fires me up. Makes me want to kiss her into next week.

“No one has ever accused me of being a masochist before. But I do like getting the best of you. I enjoy putting you in your place. Feels like a tiny victory for all womankind when I do.”

“Too funny. But I’m really not that bad of a guy. I swear.” I hope I sound convincing.

“No, I suppose you’re not. But you do have some growing up to do. Maybe I just see the potential in you, Kingsley.”

Well, what can I say to that one? She sees possibilities in me. I can’t help but be encouraged by her words. At least she’s not writing me off completely.

“Potential, huh?”

“I believe so. Do you want to hear what I really think, though? It might make you more than a little uncomfortable.” I take a strand of her soft hair and gently rub it between my fingers. I can’t seem to keep my hands to myself.

“Please. Hit me with it.” I’m dying to know her thoughts. I realize this is one of the first times I’ve been uneasy hearing a woman’s perception of me. Another first for me tonight.

“Okay. Here goes.” She takes a deep breath and looks me dead in the eye.

“From what I’ve seen and heard from you tonight, I’m convinced somewhere deep down inside there’s a decent man in there.” She brings a finger up to
me, points and lays it straight on my chest, over my heart. “He’s been hidden away for years while you pursued sex, money, and all the power you could grab. During all of these chases, a public persona was created, entrapping you. But I wonder if all of these gains in your life have brought you the happiness you hoped for.”

I’m blown away at her assessment. Processing her words for a moment, I pause before responding. I have no idea what the hell to say, because I have to face the facts. If I wasn’t standing here in her living room right now, I’d be at another location all by myself with no one to help me through the craziness of this day. No one to care about how I’m really doing as a human being. That reality is sobering and a fucking depressing thought.

“You really don’t mince your words, do you?” Whoever said “the truth hurts” was the wisest damn person alive.

“Sorry. I tried to warn you first, remember?” Her hands touch my arms as she speaks. Rubbing me assuredly. Her touch is always so comforting to me. “Listen, I don’t mean to beat up on you. It’s been a shitty day. What do you say we change the subject?”

“Sounds good.” Between dwelling on the demons surrounding my mother, discovering Kathryn’s wedding picture, and realizing I might be the biggest shmuck on the planet, I welcome a topic that doesn’t leave me so raw and exposed.

“I have some chocolate ice cream. How’s that for a change?” She raises a brow in question.

“Do you have some whipped cream to go with it?” I wiggle my brows in return.

“Haha.” She moves down the hallway, and I follow her dutifully. It’s like there is a leash attached to me keeping me by her side. I don’t like being far away from her. Normally this thought would scare the shit out of me, but not tonight. Maybe it’s those tight yoga pants of hers. Damn, her sweet little ass fills them out so fine.

“Two scoops or one?” she asks as we enter her kitchen.

It’s the first time I’ve been in here since arriving at her apartment. Sub-zero refrigerator. Viking stove. Granite counters. No expense spared in its design. For New York City, it appears to be a cook’s kitchen. Rare because most professional people eat out or have dinner delivered. Truthfully, I only need one large kitchen drawer. A place to store my silverware and takeout menus.

“Two scoops for me, please.” I point to the pots hanging over the six-burner stove. “It looks like you actually cook.”

“I love to cook. After living in Paris for more than a decade, it’s impossible not to pick up the Parisian’s love for cooking.” She bends over retrieving the chocolate ice cream from the Sub-zero’s lower freezer. Her lush ass prominently on display, waking my cock up with a slight twitch.

“I love to eat, you love to cook. Who knows, this thing between us could work out after all?” She stands up after I finish speaking. Her eyes lit in amusement.

“This thing?” She chuckles as she places the ice cream on the counter and stretches to reach the bowls on the shelf. I intercept and help her with them. My body presses up along her backside. The Shalimar perfume hits my nose, and it takes everything I have to pull away from her once I have two bowls in my hand. After depositing the bowls on the counter, I stay close by leaning my back on the counter next to her. Kathryn gets a scoop from the drawer by the freezer and opens the ice cream carton.

“Yes, this
thing
. I’m not sure how to define it. Care to help a guy out?” She pauses with her hand on the ice cream scoop and looks up at me, searching my seriousness. I can tell she’s thinking too much and is probably over-analyzing everything I just said.

“My guess is you don’t do ice cream with women much. Right?” She hits the mark as usual.

“No, not in a casual way like now. More likely the ice cream I eat is served in a silver bowl on a crisp linen tablecloth.”

“So talking and hanging out with me is something new for you. I doubt you’ve ever been friends with a woman, either. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“No, you’re right.” I suddenly find it sad to think I’ve never even thought about having a girl or woman as a friend. Sure, they act friendly to me, or more specifically my cock. But on a human level, person to person, I’ve never had more than a fleeting acquaintance or a professional working relationship with a woman.

“Maybe we should start with friendship.” Kathryn finishes filling the bowls with ice cream and returns the carton to the freezer. I watch her bend over once again and suppress a moan. But I do my best to focus on our conversation even if I’m distracted to the point where I can barely think straight.

I clear my throat. “Okay, friends. I can do that. Maybe I should pass you a note like we’re back in grade school.”

“Dear Kathryn, will you be my friend? Please circle yes or no.”

“I’ll need you to add a maybe to that one. Verdict’s still out.” She smiles and pushes a full bowl of ice cream toward my chest.

I take the bowl. “Oh, come on. Remember those kisses from earlier? Surely we are at least friends now.” I patiently wait for her response. She takes a bite of chocolate ice cream while closing her e
yes and licking her lips after swallowing. The simple act is nothing short of erotic to me.

“God, how I love ice cream,” she practically moans. Opening her eyes, she looks at me dead serious. Gone is the ice cream high, which melted away quickly. “Let’s just call those kisses getting friendly.”

“Works for me.” Silently I hope for more chances at being friendly tonight. But I’m truly enjoying just talking with Kathryn.

“I thought it might.” Her smile gleams at me, full of amusement. She knows me so well already.

She exits the kitchen area and extends her index finger, beckoning me to follow her, which I do willingly. Back in the living room, she jumps on the couch and tucks her legs under her body. Since she weighs so little, her body bounces with the impact, along with those magnificent breasts. The act is almost more than this guy can take, but I swallow hard and hope things below my belt behave.

“I have a TV in the cabinet. I hardly ever watch it, but the news comes on in a few minutes. Do you want me to turn it on?”

“I’d like to see what the media’s saying. When I saw the ancient TV in Maurice’s office, I didn’t even want to try. But if you don’t mind. My PR head emailed with details about what was being spouted, along with our official response. But I want to see it for myself.”

“Of course. I’d like to see it, too.”

Kathryn places the now-melting ice cream on the coffee table and walks to a cabinet adjacent to the bookshelf displaying her photos. She opens two large doors in the middle of the cabinet. A large-size flat screen television appears as she slides the doors to the side. A remote control sits on the wood base in front of it.

“I only watch movies on this contraption. I abhor television.” She flips on the television; the channel menu appears and she struggles to find the correct news station, or any one for that matter.

Having inhaled my ice cream, I put down my empty, bowl. “Here, let me help with that.”

She hands me the remote and immediately I find my favorite news channel. “Viola!” I say in victory.

“Men know their way around remotes. I think it’s in your DNA.” She huffs as she returns to the couch and her soupy ice cream.

“I tend to be good about pushing a woman’s buttons.” Kathryn responds by rolling her eyes.

“You’re freaking hilarious.” Her eyes show her mirth even when her words don’t. She flops down on the couch. “So can you turn up the volume, too? Or is multitasking too hard?”

Ignoring her jab, I carry the remote back with me and purposely sit down a little closer to her this time. “Ice cream was great. Thanks.”

“You woofed yours down. I’m glad you liked it. Nothing like eating some chocolate at the end of a sucky day.” Her eyes soften, appearing more affectionate as they lock with mine. She likely has no idea how much her concern means to me. She holds my gaze for a beat and then turns back to the television and I do the same.

Both of us stare at the screen as the eleven o’clock news gears up. The newscast begins with the female lead anchor starting with the first report of the night.

“Good evening. In an unusual and frightening turn of events, this evening the New York Public Library’s annual gala was interrupted by a lone gunman.”

My throat constricts and tightness grips my stomach as the lead story unfolds. I rub my hands across my trousered legs as my palms begin to perspire.

Sweating again. How many times have I encountered this new trait in the last two days? I’ve begun to lose count.

“It’s the lead story, Kingsley.” Kathryn doesn’t look my way as she speaks. Her eyes are glued to the story on the television. “This is unreal.”

“You’re telling me?” I scoff at her comment but focus on the screen. “I wonder how far the reporters will go with this story? The police haven’t released the threat Simon made on my life yet.”

“Hush, I can’t hear.” Kathryn swats at my leg and I promptly close my mouth. A reporter in front of the historic library is covering the story.

“This evening around seven p.m., Tom Duffy, Executive Director at Kings Capital, and his wife Lois, were confronted by Simon Edwards. Edwards, a former executive partner at Kings who was recently fired, confronted the couple as they were exiting their vehicle to walk the red carpet into the New York City Library Gala, held at Bryant Park. Sources say Edwards allegedly approached the couple with a gun drawn and pointed directly at them.”

One shot was fired but the bullet embedded in a nearby car and no one was injured. Edwards reportedly fled the scene by the time authorities arrived. One eyewitness said they
heard Edwards shout threats at his former partner, Tom Duffy. What those exact threats were isn’t being disclosed by the NYPD at this time. However, there is speculation that Edwards’ forced departure from Kings may have fueled tonight’s attempted assault.

Police cordoned off the area and shut down the BDFM subway line for more than two hours. The search for Edwards remains active.

An NYPD spokesman had this to say about the investigation.”

My mind races in disbelief as I try to comprehend what I’m hearing. Simon wanted me dead. He could’ve killed Tom and Lois. Or Tom and then left Lois to raise their unborn child by herself. The child would’ve been just like me, fatherless. The thought sickens me.

The camera cuts away to an interview with the police spokesman. I put aside the thoughts of what could have happened, for now.

“The investigation continues as we try to locate Simon Edwards. We have reason to believe he may have left the New York City area. Currently, the remarks he made during his assault have led us to conclude that his target tonight was specific, not general in nature.”

The police spokesman’s clip is brief and still leaves many questions unanswered. The reporter reappears on the screen and finishes her report by summarizing the events.

A photo of Simon flashes on the screen. It’s Kings Capitals’ official publicity photograph of him. The man I have known since I was nineteen is someone I never really knew at all. How did I not recognize his obviously murderous hatred of me? Surely there were signs before his betrayal, but nothing comes to mind. The reporter continues in her description of Simon.

“Simon Edwards is a thirty-two-year-old Caucasian male, six feet tall with dark brown hair. If you see Edwards, police ask that you call 9-1-1 immediately. Do not approach this individual on your own.”

The evening’s annual library gala was delayed more than an hour as police combed the building, but the show did go on as planned. The gala hosts for the evening, Ron and Nancy Smyth, reported a record-setting night of donations, indicating the incident outside didn’t deter those gathering to support the New York Public Library. Susan Masters reporting live at Bryant Park for Channel 4 news. Back to you, Melissa.”

“Thank you, Susan. In other news…”

The anchor’s voice fades away as I reach for the remote and push the off button. I’ve heard and seen enough about this whole clusterfuck to last a lifetime, but the words of the reporter and the photo of Simon’s face replay in my mind.

I rest my forehead in the palm of my hands, with my elbows digging into my thighs, supporting me as I collapse, mentally drained. Whatever mask I normally wear in these situations is nowhere to be found. My controlled life is falling away. These vulnerable feelings can’t be disguised anymore.

Why did Simon snap? Why does he want to kill me? He wasn’t one to show
any
emotion, ever. Love or hate were not passions in his vocabulary; he was a man of indifference. Nothing seemed to penetrate his cold disposition. What has occurred tonight is a display of shear hate directed toward me alone.

“I’m so sorry, Kingsley.” Kathryn’s words soothe me. She places her hands on my slumped back and begins to gently rub circles. Her fingers lightly skate over the fabric of my shirt, marking a needed trail of comfort against my skin.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks me, her voice barely above a whisper.

Raising my head off my hands, I bend my neck slightly and look into her familiar blue eyes. A man could lose his mind staring into them. I've never needed or wanted a friend more than I do right now.
 And I couldn’t ask for a better or more beautiful one than Kathryn. 

I take a deep breath before I answer her. “What would’ve caused Simon to react so violently toward me? He was already planning on leaving the company to join the one he was giving secrets to. So when the reporter says his recent firing was the cause of tonight’s assault, well, it doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“Something definitely triggered his behavior. I’ve seen people respond violently in my practice before, although not this dramatically. Occasionally, individuals who snap from reality can become desperate and lash out at people. You may be the person he blames for his misery, even if you had nothing to do with his situation.”

“I hope you’re right.” I run my fingers through my hair and shake my head in an attempt to free the weight of our discussion from my mind. Turning my attention back toward Kathryn, I smile warmly at her, hoping she’ll let me change the subject.

“I’d rather not discuss Simon and his craziness anymore. It seems pointless to keep rehashing it until we know more about his motives. However, there is something I would like to talk about. Something I’ve been wondering all night.” I lie back against the couch’s cushions. They welcome me, and my upper body relaxes into them, looking for a modicum of rest from the tension. Kathryn appraises me curiously.

“There’s something different about you, Kathryn, in a good way. You’re confident, serene, and seem to have a strong, unflappable inner peace. I’m curious to know if it’s a result of you practicing Tantra?” I prepare myself for her response, as I have no idea how she’ll answer my query. She gazes at me with a sweet smile. She appears to be happy with the question. Hopefully she’ll accommodate me with an answer, because I’m dying to know. 

“Are you curious because it involves sex? Or are you wondering why I chose to practice it?” Her question makes me contemplate my motive. What is the reason behind my curiosity?

“I’ll be honest with you. I am interested in the sex angle, and why you practice it and the effects it has on you.”

“Fair enough.” She looks at me with a keen understanding and shifts closer to me. “I think most people wonder the same thing when I tell them about my association with Tantra.”

She glances down at the couch, as if she’s collecting her thoughts before continuing with her explanation.

“A few years ago I was in a dark place personally. I mentioned my late husband last night at the bar when you asked if I was French. Remember?”

She pauses and looks at me to answer her.

“Of course, I remember. You surprised me with that answer. It was definitely unexpected.” Part of me wants to tell her I’m sorry for her loss, sympathetically acknowledge his death. But I remain silent because she appears ready to resume talking.

“Before I continue, how much do you know about Jean-Paul? You seem to know almost everything about me, and I don’t want to bore you with details you’re already aware of.”

Without thinking, I glance over to the bookcase where Kathryn and Jean-Paul’s wedding picture sits along with the encased silver medal. I turn back to her, and I can see that her eyes have followed mine. She realizes I looked at her memorial to him when she left me alone earlier.

“Okay.” I start my confession on the extent of my knowledge concerning her late husband. “I know he was an Olympic skier who died a few years ago in a skiing accident. I have to admit I looked through your pictures and saw your wedding photo. You two seemed very happy.” Her eyes gaze beyond me like she’s leaving the here and now in a dreamy way. I know she’s reminiscing about him and what they had together. I watch a slow smile form on her lips at she remembers him.

“We were very happy.” She turns back to me now. The smile still lingering on her lips. “I was gutted when he died. I sank into a deep depression. Even getting up to go to work was too much most days. His death was traumatic for me on so many levels. It left me shaken and all alone. From the day he and I met, we were inseparable. He was my life. We were each other’s worlds.”

I want to envy him, hate him even, but I can’t. The feeling doesn’t come to me. Instead I feel sad that she lost someone so dear to her. After my mother’s death, I know losing someone you love deeply is nothing I’d wish upon anyone. I reach for her hand as her eyes fill with tears. When our fingers connect, I realize how much I missed feeling her soft skin against mine.

“He died skiing in the French Alps. An Olympic skier gliding down a semi-steep hill should’ve been nothing out of the ordinary, but he must have hit an unseen mogul. He lost control and veered off course and headed straight into a thick patch of trees. I was watching his movements from above as I skied down toward him.”

She closes her eyes; a few tears fall down her pale cheeks. I move on instinct and wipe them from her face. Their presence is too much for me to stomach. She opens her eyes again and forces a smile through her tears. I want to pull her into my arms and soothe away the pain, but I hold off and wait, choosing to comfort her with words.

“I’m so sorry, Kathryn. I can’t think of anything more horrible than being witness to the accident.” I think back to my nightmares, the ones that still haunt me, and wonder if she has anything similar to them. Imagining the pain Kathryn went through watching her husband die right in front of her eyes; it’s horrific.

“Thanks, Kingsley. I’m sorry to drag you back to that dark place with me. But that’s when I discovered Tantra, or when it saved me. It brought light back into my life.” Her tears are dry now, but I’m still holding her hand, not wanting to let go.

We’ve moved even closer to one another. Our bodies turned toward each other on the couch with our legs now touching at the knees. We’ve once again succumbed to the magnetic pull between us, an unseen energy we can’t seem to control.

She takes a few deep breaths, trying to regain her composure. Her eyelashes still wet from her tears, but her face doesn’t show a trace of the sadness she expressed a short moment ago.

“So Tantra helped you get beyond his death?” I ask, encouraging her to continue.

“It did. The man you met today at the café, Jacques LeBaron, was a fellow psychologist with me in Paris. We’ve known each other since our doctorate studies and remained friends after graduation. Jacques worried that I was withdrawing from life after Jean-Paul’s death, and he feared I wasn’t coping with my loss. I knew he was right, but I had no idea how to feel again. I was very numb at that point. Going through the essential motions of existing. Jacques had practiced Tantra for several years and persuaded me to come to a meeting with him. I agreed to go, but just as friends.”

My jaw tenses at the mention of Frenchie’s name. Jean-Paul is a ghost from her past, but this other man is here in her present. And I don’t care for him being in her life now, sticking his nose in her business like he did earlier when I was with her. I don’t like it, or him, one fucking bit. Over the course of twenty-four hours, I’ve turned into a green-eyed monster. It’s a foreign feeling to me.

“So is this when you began seeing him? After your husband’s death?” My brows pull together; I can’t conceal my feelings for Jacque. 

“Jacques and I have never been together in the true sense of the word. This may be hard for you to hear, but he and I have practiced Tantra together for the past two years. Jacques is very special to me, but I will never love him beyond being my dear friend. Our relationship lacks chemistry, that spark needed for love and a basic attraction. It’s missing, and we both acknowledge it. We respect and care for each other, but without that deep chemistry we’ll never be more than occasional lovers.”

Part of me wants to punch the couch pillows beside me. The other part wants to shout for joy that she doesn’t feel anything more for him than she does.

“I can tell you’re having a hard time with me mentioning Jacques’ name. But enough with the double standard, Kingsley. I’m looking past your countless one-night stands right now.” She crosses her arms over her chest, standing her ground.

“Touché,” I agree with her assessment and throw my hands up in surrender. “Please, go on.”

She brings her arms back down to her lap and leans toward me. The same stance she had before I went all caveman.

“Let me tell you what happened to me emotionally and spiritually when I started practicing Tantra. I’ll leave out the physical part with him.
It seems to make you uncomfortable.”