February

It happened one Valentine's Eve.

You are cordially invited to

The Red Dress Affair

In honor of the life

Of

Joanna Elizabeth Frederick

Beloved wife, mother, and cousin

1

Valentine's Eve RSVP

I'd been waiting in the empty ballroom for what felt like forever.

The Red Dress Affair is something special to Naomi, and because of my devotion to her, I've helped her organize the fundraiser in honor of her cousin who died of heart disease, a top contender for the leading cause of death among women.

A broken heart was certainly eating away at my life.

For Joanna, a woman I didn't really know despite her being Naomi's cousin, her condition had gone undiagnosed, and she left behind a husband and three adult sons.

Strangely, the timing of this year's event felt appropriate—Valentine's Day. In my opinion, one of the most contrived holidays, and this Valentine's Eve happened to fall on a Friday, thus Friday the thirteenth.

While waiting in the ballroom of the Coastal Resort which overlooks the Pacific Ocean, a gin and tonic was delivered to me, and I was told Naomi would be back soon to finalize some last-minute detail. I am exhausted and a long, hot bath and a sexy good book are calling my name. Instead, I absently sip the refreshing drink in my hand, waiting for my mother-in-law's return.

Wait, should I call Naomi my former mother-in-law now? Not necessarily an ex-mother-in-law, right? What is the proper term for a woman, whose son had been your husband, and said husband has passed away? I didn"t know. Either way, she'd been more of a mother to me than my own, but those thoughts had no place here this evening.

Neither did thoughts of Clifton. For the past year I'd been living in memories.

For only a moment, I wanted to forget.

Maybe Naomi was right. She'd been hinting that it was time to open my heart to new possibilities.

"Fuck."

My thoughts scatter when a deep masculine voice echoes throughout the empty room. From my position, standing near one of the three floor-to-ceiling, arched windows, staring out at the darkening ocean below, I'm hidden from his view.

"Excuse me." I laugh nervously, giving away my presence in the vacant room.

"Where's Naomi?" he roughly asks.

Approaching me, I note that he looks vaguely familiar. Something about his size? Or maybe his stern expression? However, I can't place him. With dirty blond hair, and heavy scruff on his jaw, he could be anyone. His build is athletic, with broad shoulders and six-plus feet of height. In the sports management industry, I see so many athletes that their images blur together unless we represent them. Not that this man is an athlete. In his pressed suit and crisp button down shirt, he looks more like a businessman.

"And who might you be, flower?" His gaze blatantly skims over my body, undressing me with his moss-green eyes. Strangely, his visual appraisal feels good, if a bit intrusive. A man's hands haven't been on me in so long, I can't remember the sensation.

When he takes another step toward me, a sense of recognition hits me again, but I still can't figure out the familiarity.

"How do I know you?" His brows cinch. "Have we been together?" His tone is sharp, direct even as his eyes narrow.

As for me, my eyes widen in horrified surprise, then I blink at his abrasiveness. "Excuse me?"

"I feel like I know you."

"Know me?" I choke. "Is that some kind of weak pick-up line?"

Being hit on feels like an impossibility. At this point, the concept of dating is foreign. I haven't been with anyone other than Clifton in ages.

"Do you want it to be a pick-up line?" The sudden arch of his thick brows and the way his mouth twists into a teasing smirk causes me to choke on an answer.

"I—"

"That's what I thought." He sighs, lowering his shoulders and glancing around the empty room. The tables are covered in snowy white linen awaiting floral arrangements due to be delivered tomorrow. I have no idea what Naomi's last-minute detail could entail.

Checking my phone for the time, I note Naomi is almost an hour late. Timeliness isn't one of her better assets, which was another reason she asked me to help with the fundraiser.

Good ole reliable Ruthie. That's me.

"Expecting someone?" he asks, dropping his gaze to the phone in my hand.

I click out of the messenger app. "I was, but she's late."

His eyebrow hitches again.

"She's my—"

His hand raises, stopping my explanation.

"You don't need to explain. Whatever wets your petals."

What the heck?

"Gotta girlfriend. That's cool."

"A what?" Confused, I should clarify that Naomi is my mother-in-law, but then I'd have to explain how I'm a widow, blah-blah-blah. Instead, I'm a bit offended that he's making assumptions about me, any assumptions.

"Like I said. Whatever, flower." Mischief gleams in his eyes. "I like girl-on-girl action."

"Oh. My. God. It's not like that." I scoff. "Did you just admit what I think you said? To me, a total stranger? You sound like a pig."

He flinches, his expression showing he's taken aback by my sudden outburst. Then, he shrugs, narrowing those green eyes once more at me. "Something tells me we aren't strangers. I know you, I just can't figure how. Yet." He scans the length of my body once more.

Despite his rudeness, my body betrays me. Nipples peak. Lower region clenches.

He hasn't offered his name, so I keep my identity to myself. Once I explain my relationship with Naomi, this could all go downhill. And despite his brash behavior, I'm drawn to him. His demeanor suggests he is everything Clifton wasn't. Confident. Cocky. He certainly has a sharp tongue.

His phone pings, drawing his attention.

"Meeting someone?" I quip, lifting my gin and tonic for another sip.

"It's not like that." He teasingly tosses my retort back to me, then returns his phone to his suit jacket.

"Yeah, well, my date isn't coming." I wink. "So I'm going to bed."

With one last look at him, drinking him in like how I swallow the last dregs of my GT, I prepare to leave the room. Storing the image of him in my memory for some fantasy play later, he'll do nicely when I have that sexy book in hand.

As I brush past him, he catches my upper arm. "Wait. I—I'm sorry. Don't go." His tone softens, sounding contrite for his behavior. "Please? It's been a long day. Stay. Have a drink with me?"

I lift my empty glass. Jiggling it causes the remaining ice to clatter while I ignore how his touch heats my skin. "My drink is gone."

"I'll get you another one. What's your poison, flower?" He nods at the glass, before taking it from me, and setting it on the table which will hold the banquet spread tomorrow evening.

"Look, I'm tired," I tell him.

He pouts, blinks his eyes like a begging child, and something inside me snaps, like one of those glow-sticks they sell at parades. The kind you crack in the middle, and they illuminate.

"Five minutes. I'll be right back." He holds up a hand, emphasizing the time with his fingers. "One drink." He curls his fingers so only the index points upward, long and thick, and strangely intimidating.

I don't respond.

But as he saunters from the room, I foolishly remain behind. My gaze easily follows his broad body as he retreats. I'll wait, but I'm wondering why?

Turning toward the windows once more, I stare out at the rolling ocean, crashing against the large bluff. Rain finally breaks free of the overcast clouds, pummeling the glass, and causing rivulets to form and slither down the panes.

My phone pings with a message from Naomi. No surprise, she isn't returning. She'll see me in the morning.

I should be angry that I've been waiting on her. Angry that I'm helping with this fundraiser which cuts a little too close to the heart. Angry that Clifton is gone and never coming back.

The rain cries against the window. I relate to the pain.

"Flower?"

His questioning voice causes me to jump, and I spin so fast, I stumble back into the window.

The handsome stranger holds up a green bottle of gin and two fresh glasses pinched between his fingers with lime wedges and cubes of ice already inside them. A bottle of tonic is tucked into his armpit.

"Wow, you were deep into it, weren't you?" He chuckles, setting the Tanqueray bottle on the edge of the future banquet table, and sets up bar, opening the bottle and filling each glass half full.

"Pardon me?"

"I asked you a question, but you were a million miles away." Next, he adds tonic, like he's made this drink a time or two. He lifts the bottle with a flourish, and I wonder just how much of a player he is, especially after making his rude comment about girl-on-girl action. Unfortunately for me, I've heard this kind of talk too often in my line of work.

Offering me the drink he's made, he stands next to me, facing the window now covered in rain. We don't toast. We don't talk. We just stare out at the violent ocean.

That water took Clifton from me.

But while my mind is nowhere and everywhere at once, I'm comforted by the silent presence of this stranger near me, and I take a sip of my heavily poured gin with hardly a splash of tonic.

He downs his drink in one heavy swallow, and I strangely wonder what it'd be like to be drunk on him. Him kissing me. Him on his knees. Him entering me.

The images make me dizzy, and I place a hand on the cold glass as I sway on my high heels.

"Easy there, flower." He chuckles, noticing my movements, and reaching out a steadying hand to my elbow. "Don't wilt on me yet."

With his warm hand on my cool skin, he slides his palm upward, over my shoulder, and around the back of my neck. Massaging lightly, his thumb rubs up and down the sensitive skin of my throat while his fingers press against my nape.

Involuntarily, my eyes close as I melt into the warmth of his touch.

"Your skin is so soft." He pauses. "I wonder where else you might be tender?"

My eyes spring open. Somehow, I've stepped closer to him, or he's come closer to me.

We're playing a dangerous game. He is a stranger. Yet, I have that odd suspicion again that I know him.

While his touch felt comforting, there is still something equally unsettling about being near him. His hand circles my neck, cuffing it almost, before he slides it down my chest until his fingers tickle the swell of cleavage exposed by the bodice of my dress.

Instantly, I step back, my breaths coming in ragged wisps. We stare at one another as he draws back his hand, palm outward toward me. In his expression is the same shock I feel coursing through my body.

"I'm sorry." His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "That might have been too much."

"You think?" But do I really think so? As a woman starved for physical affection, was it too much too soon? Safe Ruthie would scream yes. New Ruthie is questioning all her morals.

"I shouldn't have—" He points toward my breasts and draws a big circle in the air with his fingertip. "It was crossing a line. One you clearly aren't interested in stepping over." He rubs a hand over his short hair, then shakes his head.

"Okay." It's the only word I can spit out of my dry mouth when he continues to stand in my space. He is so close, I breathe him in, my nose tickling with an ocean fresh, masculine scent.

He sticks out his hand like we're being introduced. Suddenly, he is adorably awkward and apologetic. "I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted." I place my hand in his, but something strange happens.

Something clearly unexpected.

A warmth I've only felt once drips through me like honey, enveloping my entire body when only our fingers clasp together. We both glance down at our connected hands, holding on longer than a handshake warrants.

He leans forward and brushes his lips lightly against my cheek. Softly, he repeats his apology. "I'm sorry."

Swallowing against the vibration humming through me, I choke out another, "Okay."

The reply is simple, innocent, and yet somehow permission for more.

His mouth touches mine, tenderly drawing out a quick kiss. What could have been a brief exchange between strangers, suddenly feels like something deeper. Heat radiates over my lips which have been cold for too long.

And I launch myself toward him, tossing my arms around his neck before he can fully pull away. and crash my mouth to his.

The familiarity becomes a strong twinge of longing. I dare to think he might be someone I used to know. A fleeting encounter. No more than sixty seconds. Yet a moment that turned my world upside down when I was young.

Instantly, our lips meld together, suddenly frenzied with sucks and nips. I slip my arms tighter around his neck. His hands wrap around my lower back.

Pressed against him, his familiarity becomes clear. The scene unfolds for me. As faithful as I'd been to Clifton, I strayed once—only one kiss—and the moment had been exactly like this. Bodies crushing together, molding into each other. A kiss like none other.

Presently, his response to my body is apparent and nudging against my abdomen. I'm desperate to climb him like the tree he is, and he must sense my desire, because he lifts me. Unfortunately, my skirt is too tight for me to spread my legs around his waist.

Instead, he carries me until my back gently lands on the banquet table. With our mouths still fused together, I suddenly envision myself as the main course. He'll be dessert.

His fingers move to the pearl-shaped buttons on my blouse. Our kiss breaks as he glances to where his thick fingers work the tiny buttons.

"So delicate, flower." His rough whisper is scratchy like the scruff on his jaw. Once unbuttoned, he tugs my blouse free from my skirt and places a large hand on my stomach, gingerly working his way upward, forcing the cream-colored material to spread apart and expose my nude-colored bra. His powerful hand covers one breast, squeezing firmly. I arch my back, desperate for him to give me more.

My eyes close.

"Oh no, flower, you keep those eyes open and focused on me. Here and now." It's a reminder I was lost in my thoughts when he returned to the empty ballroom.

For the shortest second, my mind slips away again. But the mouth crushing mine instantly draws me back to the present, reveling in the lips of someone else from my past. I do know him. He doesn't seem to recognize me, but I am not going to ruin this moment with a trip down memory lane. I will keep him for my memories, like I had before.

His lips move over mine, drawing me into him. His hands continue to work my breast, kneading, teasing, plucking my nipple. Then his fingers are on the move again, tickling down my belly before hitching up my skirt. When his thick finger swipes across my damp panties, I nearly jump off the table.

It's been too long.

"Holy fuck, flower, your petals are so wet." His cheeky comment has me narrowing my eyes.

"That's the worst line ever," I choke, dazed and mesmerized by where he's touching, how he's touching. Then his finger shoves aside my underwear and parts those petals he's teasing me about.

I buck upward. Giddy, my thoughts scatter as he plucks at sensitive folds.

He wants me. He wants me not. He wants me.

It doesn't take long before a forgotten flutter stirs inside me. An orchestra of wings flit within my lower belly. Somehow, I know the takeoff isn't going to be like anything I've experienced before.

With the addition of his second finger inside me and his thumb on my clit, I jettison, my mind empty, my body bursting. The flight is so sweet, drawn out and gratifying in a way I can't explain. I feel light and free, effortlessly floating before drifting back to the table beneath me.

My eyes had fallen closed again, but they open to find a handsome stranger smiling down at me.

"That was beautiful," he whispers, pride lacing his voice before he removes my underwear and lowers his face between my thighs. "Next course."

Too weak to stop him, the first lap of his flattened tongue turns me into hot syrup poured over ice cream, melting, spreading. He leaves no drop behind, savoring every lick and suck until I blossom a second time. Blooming like the flower nickname he's taken to calling me.

Eventually, I press at his head, signaling I've had enough. He's too much. With a final kiss to my inner thigh, he stands and holds out a hand to help me upright.

The intensity of his eyes sends another wave of memory through me.

Just look into my eyes for a second. Breathe.

Fate has once been cruel, so I didn't trust it could not be kind enough to give me a second chance with this man.

I remember those moss-green eyes from long ago, like a dark forest, beckoning me to enter.

Clasping my hand, he assists me as I hop off the banquet table and right my skirt. My underwear has mysteriously disappeared. I should find them, but the reckless sensation of going without them is refreshing. As scandalous as letting a stranger touch you and eat you out in a vacant ballroom.

With the three arched windows at his back, I notice the rain has shifted to a raging storm. Lightning crackles over the ocean. The muffled sound of the thunder's roar vibrates against the glass panes.

Standing before him with my blouse still open but skirt back in place, I reach for his dress shirt, and unbutton a few buttons. His suit jacket hit the floor at some point in our eager kissing.

"Whatcha doin', flower?"

"I think it would only be fair." I hardly recognize my own voice, sated yet seductive. But I also want to feel his skin beneath my hands. With shaky fingers, I slowly travel down the front of his shirt. His impatience takes over and he removes the remaining buttons with a sharp tug of the material. One or two pings against the window.

Before me is a wall of chest, sculpted and solid, and unlike any man I've ever known. Any. Man.

Despite the tremble in my hands, I run them over his molded pecs and rounded shoulders, then drift down his bulging biceps, taking my time to inspect him with my touch.

Once again impatient, he tugs me to him, and the smoldering heat of his chest hits the coolness of my midsection. Pushing my blouse off my shoulders, he hugs me to him, sighing as my covered breasts meet his bare chest.

Suddenly, the dim lights of the ballroom go out. We both still while he glances over my shoulder. Near the windows, we are somehow not detected in the room. Possibly a banquet worker turned off the lights. Maybe the storm has knocked out the power.

Whatever has happened, we are covered by darkness. The outside light from the storm is the only thing illuminating the room.

"I want you," he murmurs into my ear before nibbling at my neck.

A shiver runs through me. "I'd like that." I want to be wanted, desired, cherished. And standing before me seems to be a second chance at something that had slipped through my fingers once upon a time.

In an instant, my back is against the cool window, rain pelting the outer side. The chill is refreshing while his heat overpowers me. My skirt is unzipped and slid to the floor while I work at his belt and loosen his pants. My bra comes off next. My heels remain on.

He tugs something from his back pocket and holds up a foiled packet. The suggestion is clear. I hadn't thought to ask. Reckless, Ruthie. Risky. But my experience is limited, and I don't want to overanalyze his preparedness.

With unparallel strength, he easily lifts me, and my legs wrap around his waist. For only a second the heat of his tip rubs against tender skin, teasing me, taunting me.

He hisses at the contact. Then he lowers me once more, taking care to cover himself and I watch in wonder. His length. His thickness. As I'd only been with one man my entire life, I've never witnessed a man rolling on a condom. Once covered, my beautiful stranger reaches for my hand, guiding me to wrap around his heavy shaft and stroke him a few times.

Desire spikes within me.

Once more, I'm lifted, legs easily spreading around his hips this time. He's quickly notched at my entrance and with a swift surge, inside me.

I gasp, blinking back tears sparked by the rushed intrusion.

"Fuck, you're so tight, flower." He pauses for a breath, allowing me to adjust to the sudden intrusion and delicious fullness.

"It's been a long time," I admit, closing my eyes in embarrassment. I shouldn't feel ashamed but I am.

"How long?" The question comes on a strained exhale.

"Long enough."

His eyes search mine for a moment. Something in him shifts. "Time to make up for the loss."

With my back pinned to the cold window, he slows his pace to work me over. His hands grip my outer thighs, my legs clench around his lower back. He moves in me with skill and practice. I don't want to consider how many others he's been with.

Instead, I concentrate on how full I feel, how long it has been since I've felt anything like this sensation. This blissed-out overwhelm. This connection with another person. This incredibly beautiful and free.

His artful thrusts build another colony of flutters within my belly. I'm desperate for him to recognize me as I've recognized him and yet reveling in the disassociation.

Strangers in the dark. A vacant ballroom. A storm.

My romantic brain gets carried away.

"Come, baby," he demands through gritted teeth. The tension suggests he's holding back, waiting on me.

And I don't want to disappoint him like I didn't want to disappoint him way back when.

Once more, I'm like a solo butterfly set free from a trap. A glass jar open and I can breathe again. Spreading my wings, I take flight, and soar.

+ + +

After completing what I consider a heavenly act, we slide to the floor with me on his lap. Breathless and wrapped around him, we are a tangle of spent limbs. Our heavy exhales fog the glass behind me. The raging storm outside subsides to a softer shower, pattering against the window, like gentle tears. The steady beat blends with our breathing, lowering our ragged heart rates.

Like our hot passion, the weather system has passed.

He nuzzles into my neck and then slips me off his lap. Having never done anything like this before, I take my removal from him as a silent sign to dress.

Skirt? Check.

Bra? Check.

Shoes. Still on.

Underwear. Gone.

He stands in front of me in all his glory. Pants righted. Shirt returned, but open.

The ballroom is still dark. Perhaps darker with the storm moving on, but my eyes have adjusted well enough. Natural light shimmers into the room, highlighting the empty dance floor that will be filled tomorrow evening.

His gaze follows mine to the parquet floor "Would you like to dance?" His voice remains low, quiet, as if someone might hear him. "I don't think I'm ready to let you go."

My insides are a puddle like the remains from the rain outside. I'm not ready to leave him either.

With his hand extended, I set mine in his, and he leads me to the center of the space. His arms wrap around me, and I snuggle into his chest, and we sway like we didn't want to ever let go.

Foolish heart. Silly thoughts.

Eventually, I look up at him, catching him watching me, and we kiss. Tender. Sweet. Romantic. The moment holds everything a girl could dream of.

A moonlit chandelier. A dark ballroom. A handsome stranger.

And an invitation to his room to continue the night.