What’s a woman to do when the younger man she can’t forget tracks her down after a night of passion meant only to celebrate her birthday? Forty-year old Raphella Dotti succumbs to a year of Sunday morning brunches with her ear to the phone with sexy thirty-year old artist Jake Truhorn who tempts her into spending her next birthday celebrating with a week of no-holds-barred-anything-goes-sex. Who says fantasies can’t come true?
She’d caught a glimpse of the reclusive young artist’s back earlier. His signature dark blond braid trailing between his very broad shoulder blades had fascinated her and then he’d turned around. Tall, muscular and Nordic didn’t hurt.
He walked past beautiful women in designer dresses who touched him in passing, a group of Fortune 500 donors who’d flocked to the trendy Chicago gallery Snap! to support the local Inner City Youth Center by bidding on donated artwork including New York artist Truhorn’s latest mural entitled The Forgotten. He passed a harried tray-laden waiter, deftly snagging a flute of champagne while he still pinned her with is blue-gray gaze.
Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me, she hummed quietly.
“You look…as if you can’t decide what to do next,” he said, insinuating the chilled stemware into her hand.
The timbre of his voice vibrated through her and she smiled. “And you look interesting.” And young.
An hour later she found out just how interesting and young he was while they were enjoying a glass of wine and oysters on the half-shell in one of Chicago’s lesser known treasures, The Wine Cellar. Jake was thirty, impressed by her passion for her job as style editor for the local city magazine Whimsy and everything from his infectious smile to his velvety voice lulled her into her favorite bit of foreplay—the chase. He was still looking into her eyes and smiling when he suggested a little exercise.
The line charmed her until they actually walked the six blocks to his hotel, his arm around her at her first shiver. The September breeze had nothing to do with her body temperature. A delicious ripple of anticipation and the Viking marauder with the hungry glint in his very determined gaze was what made her pull her black silk shawl tighter.
She thought he’d kiss her in the elevator but his hand barely brushed her fingertips and the little zing was like an electrical shock sizzling through her. When the doors opened he took her hand and drew her down the hall into his room, backing her against the door as he closed it.
Delicious heat radiated from somewhere behind his very starched, white shirt and the thought that she’d never be cold again slipped through her mind before she could stop it and then his hot insistent mouth was on hers and she stopped thinking.
Copyright 2018 by Paris Brandon. All rights reserved.