Play Me (9 page)

“Ready,” I
said.

Jake

Ella kept surprising
me. I had fully expected my thinly veiled attempt to spend time with
her to be rebuked. I even thought about using the favor I had earned
watching over Jeremiah to convince her to “help” me, but
here she was, in my apartment, drinking wine and looking like every
wet dream I never knew I’d had.

God, that mouth. It was
stained purple from the wine, and I wanted nothing more than to get
drunk from licking it. Right now, it was offering to taste my soup,
and sadly that wasn’t a euphemism.

I had half lied when I
told her I was testing recipes. I had been making chicken soup since
I was a kid—one of the first things my mom had taught me—but
I had been making adjustments to it ever since. I was never fully
satisfied, so I was always looking to improve it. This was just the
latest adaptation of an old standby, and most of it had already been
prepped and ready to go. It wasn’t the usual elaborate meal I
would usually make for a woman, but from what I could tell, that
wasn’t likely to impress Ella.

The broth, handmade of
course, I kept handy in my freezer, and was packed with spices. The
chicken that had been marinating in the fridge was seasoned with my
own blend of spices as well. I also sautéed the vegetables
before throwing them in, adding another layer of flavor. This time I
was adding coconut milk and bay leaves, giving it a Thai-inspired
flourish. Everything came together quickly, merely needing to be
added to the large stock pot and cooked until the chicken was done.
My mother’s original recipe had been a simple one, but one that
would never fly in a professional kitchen. Customers always wanted
something new, something fresh and exciting. This was my latest
attempt to give it to them.

I prepped two bowls and
took a seat at the counter next to Ella. This was usually the moment.
I would pretend to eat, but really, I was always watching the face of
my (usually female) guest. The same thing always happened. She would
take a bite or spoonful and her eyes would close, her lips curling
upwards into a smile as she lost herself in the food. And I would
lose myself in that expression, in the knowledge that I had given
someone a moment of pure enjoyment. It was always a rush for me. But
I had never wanted to please someone as much as I wanted to please
Ella in that moment. I didn’t even bother pretending to taste
my own bowl, I just watched her.

I
could tell she was a little drunk—after all, she had drank
nearly half a bottle of wine—but it seemed to relax her in a
way I hadn’t seen before. Her hair, though still constricted in
that tight, complicated bun, was beginning to come loose, especially
at her temples, and I felt the urge to sweep the wayward strands
back, to run my fingers along her cheek, to tilt her chin up so her
mouth could meet mine and then . . . 

I heard her take a sip
of her soup. I had been so lost in my thoughts that I had missed the
moment!

But there was no smile.
No closing of the eyes. No enjoyment.

Instead, Ella actually
wrinkled her nose.

This had never happened
to me before. My cooking was my silver bullet—the one thing I
could always count on to seduce, to invoke pleasure. But Ella took
only a few bites before she pushed the bowl away and picked up her
wine glass again.

“I’m
sorry,” she said, looking at me with those big brown eyes. And
she did look sorry.

What the fuck? I stared
down at my own soup. Was it that bad? I took a bite. The flavors were
all there, intense and vibrant. I didn’t understand.

“It’s just
not what I like,” she confessed and took another sip of wine.
“It’s too . . . complicated. I guess
I just like things simple.”

I found myself
speechless.
Was
it too complicated? I took another sip and
suddenly all the flavors that I had been so proud of seemed to
overwhelm my senses. It was different, that was for sure, but was it
actually good? It didn’t taste anything like my mother’s
recipe anymore, and I was no longer pleased with it.

“I’m really
sorry.” She reached out and placed her hand on my arm. The
warmth of it suddenly erased my disappointment. Okay, so food wasn’t
going to be the way I seduced her. Fine, that was fine, I had other
tools in my arsenal.

“I understand,”
I told her, gathering up the bowls and putting them in the sink.

“I feel
terrible.” She took another sip of wine. “You worked so
hard.”

But I was already
reconsidering my tactic with both my soup and with Ella.

“I think you’re
right,” I told her. “About the soup. About it being too
complicated.”

“Oh no, Jake.”
She looked downward. “I don’t know anything about food.
I’m not the person you should be asking.”

“But you know
what you like,” I reminded her. “That’s all that
matters.”

“I like canned
soup.” She glanced up at me, and through her embarrassment, I
could see a tiny glimmer of humor. “I distinctly remember you
being completely horrified by that fact.”

“Well, yes,”
I admitted, pleased that she wasn’t upset. “But I’m
a snob when it comes to food.”

“I understand.”
She gave me a small smile. “I think you remember my monologue
about classical music.”

“It was a very
informative monologue,” I told her.

This time her smile
stopped my breath. God, she was gorgeous.

“Go out with me,”
I said. Surely she couldn’t ignore this attraction between us.
It was undeniable and, in my opinion, well worth exploring. In bed,
preferably, but to my surprise, I realized that I could wait for
that.

But she looked startled
at the suggestion and her eyes dropped back to her wine glass. She
took another sip. A long one.

“I’m
sorry.” I mentally cursed myself for not listening to Dakota. I
should have let this breathe. I should have waited. But before I
could chastise myself too much, I heard Ella put down the wine glass.
I looked up just as she stood. On unsteady feet, she stepped forward,
maneuvering herself between my knees, and before I could say
anything, brought her wine stained lips down on mine.

Ella

I was drunk in the
afternoon and kissing some guy I barely knew and I had never felt
more alive. If my forwardness surprised Jake, he recovered quickly,
his hand cupping my cheek, holding me in place, my lips against his.
God, he had great lips. Firm and warm and perfect. I sighed against
them and could feel him smile.

Then he pulled away,
but only a few inches, his forehead pressing against mine.

“Go out with me,”
he whispered again.

I opened my mouth to
say no, but before a single word could escape my lips, he claimed
them again.

This time, it was his
tongue, hot and slick, sliding into my mouth, finding my tongue and
coaxing it into a primal dance I had nearly forgotten. But it had
never been like this before. Kissing other guys, kissing Mark, had
been enjoyable, but I knew I had been missing something. I had always
assumed it was me. That something was wrong with me. But with Jake’s
tongue tangling with mine, my entire body tingling with the most
glorious anticipation, I realized that I wasn’t the thing that
had been wrong in my past romantic equations—it had been the
guy and me together. This pairing worked. Jake’s other hand
curled around my hip, pulling me closer to him, flush against his
body, my hips braced by his legs. And against my stomach I felt the
long, hard length of him, and I wanted nothing more than to free him,
to feel him hot and smooth against my hand, between my legs, inside
me.

The intensity of my
desire shocked and thrilled me. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was
the memory of the brownies he had made, or even lingering adrenaline
from that afternoon’s competition, but I didn’t care. All
I wanted was Jake.

This time when we broke
apart, we were both breathing heavily.

“Go out with me,”
Jake asked for a third time.

I didn’t answer,
only kissed him again. I couldn’t get enough. I could taste the
salt and spices from the soup, which took on a completely new flavor
in his mouth, and I wanted to lap him up. His fingers were tight on
my hip, almost holding me in place when I wanted to be closer. I
leaned my upper body against him, pressing my breasts against his
chest, against the thin cotton of his shirt, and wished that my dress
wasn’t so heavy and draped. I wanted to feel my skin against
his.

Then he pulled away,
his hands now keeping me at a distance. In my wine haze, I didn’t
understand. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment, as
if to collect himself. When he opened them, though, they still burned
with the same desire I felt boiling inside of me.

“Go out with me,”
he asked once more, his voice husky. “Come on, Ella,” he
whispered, lifting my hand and placing a soft kiss on my palm. I
shuddered at the sensation. “Just”—he kissed the
inside of my wrist—“one”—he leaned forward
and kissed the side of my neck—“little”—then
the line of my jaw—“tiny”—then my
cheek—“itty-bitty”—then the corner of my
mouth—“date.”

I knew he wouldn’t
kiss me where I wanted to be kissed until I agreed. And for a moment
I thought of saying no. Mark had always said sex and relationships
got in the way of great music. But I looked at Jake, at the earnest
look in his eyes, and the heat simmering there, and thought, fuck
you, Mark.

“Okay,” I
said. “One date.”

His lips came back down
on mine and my knees went weak as his tongue plundered my mouth, my
entire body screaming for attention. My hands went straight for his
chest, the heat from his skin nearly burning my palms, but I didn’t
care. The T-shirt was thin, surely it wouldn’t take much, just
one strong tear . . . 

But before I could
relieve Jake of his well-worn shirt, I felt a buzzing against my
thigh. I was more than happy to ignore it, or even lean into it if
necessary, but Jake pulled away, frowning.

“Fuck,” he
muttered, extracting his phone from his pocket. “I have to go
to work,” he told me, looking as disappointed as I felt.

“Oh,” was
all I could say, and suddenly I was sober again and realizing that
not only had I agreed to go out with my neighbor who I barely knew,
but I had also spent the last fifteen minutes tongue wrestling with
him. That was not like me at all. But, maybe that was a good thing.

I didn’t have
much more time to think about it, as Jake and I untangled ourselves
from the enticing position we had gotten ourselves into. I didn’t
know what to do, so I just stood there awkwardly, smoothing back the
hair that had come loose during our lip lock.

Jake shot me a
sympathetic look.

“I wish I could
stay.” He took my hand and I tried really hard not to be
disappointed. Then I remembered that it was Saturday and I also had
somewhere to be.

“I understand.”
I gave his hand a little squeeze and he smiled.

“I don’t
have to work Monday night.” He looked almost a little nervous
which was ridiculously adorable. “Can I pick you up at six?”

“Okay.” I
pushed away Mark’s lecture about getting involved during a time
like this. I was an adult and he wasn’t my boyfriend or my
parents. It was time I stopped letting him be in charge of anything
outside of our lessons, and time to have a life outside of music for
once. Especially if I didn’t win this competition. I quickly
pushed that thought away, though. I wasn’t giving up. Not yet.
Not until I was officially out.

Jake grabbed a jacket
and his keys.

“Let me walk you
to your door.” He grabbed my hand again and I loved how warm
and big it was.

“It’s just
downstairs.” I didn’t know why I was objecting.

He grinned. “Yeah,
but this way I get to give you one more kiss.”

My cheeks heated up and
I followed him out of his apartment, my heart racing as if we hadn’t
been kissing only a few minutes before.

When we got to my door,
he made good on his promise, pulling me into his arms, my body flush
against his and giving me the kind of kiss a sailor gave to his lady
before shipping off to sea for months on end. My toes curled in my
shoes and I clung to his shoulders, wishing that I could just drag
him inside my apartment, make quick work of that ratty tee and pull
him down onto my mattress.

But his phone buzzed
again, this time against my hip.

“Sorry,”
Jake said, breaking away from me, a dazed look on his face. I’m
sure I looked the same, my fingers going to my lips which felt
wonderfully tingly and swollen. “I have to go,” he told
me.

“Okay.” I
seemed unable to form sentences longer than a single word.

Jake dropped a kiss
onto my forehead.

“See you
tomorrow.” He gave me a wink and then headed out the double
doors to the street. I watched him walk away, really, really enjoying
the view, his broad shoulders stretching the thin fabric of his
shirt, the muscles in his back something I was looking forward to
exploring. Monday couldn’t come soon enough.

Music was already
blasting by the time I got to my parents’ house. This could
only mean one thing: someone was arguing with someone else about
jazz. For the most part, my family listened to their music of choice
slightly louder than most, but at a volume still respectful of their
neighbors. When it got turned up to eleven, so to speak, one of them
was trying to prove a point.

“It’s the
trumpet,” my sister was yelling when I let myself in. “The
trumpet is the glue of the whole piece.”

My eardrums felt like
they were going to explode—the entire house seemed to shake
with the intensity of the state of the art sound system. My parents
didn’t spend money on much, but a good speaker system? They’d
blow their life savings to hear the music “the way it was meant
to be heard.” They had every single type of listening
device—record players, 8 track tape players, CD players, mp3
players—everything so they could listen to it no matter how it
was released. There was even a gramophone in my mother’s
office—though none of us were allowed to touch it.