The Siren

“I think,” she said, “I haven’t had enough caffeine this morning.”

He cleared his throat. “Well, why not kill two birds with one stone?”

“Excuse me?”

“You get a break, don’t you?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“When?”

Izzy glanced at the clock. “Half an hour ago. But—”

“Buy me a coffee. You can make up for the double booking and get your fix at the same time. If you like.”

Izzy looked straight at him. Yes, he certainly was hot. And he had the decency to be a little nervous—an uncertain smile flickered over his mouth.

She checked for danger signs. No obvious ax scars, no psychopathic thousand-yard stare. He had longish, dirty-blond hair and a dusting of stubble. Cords and a leather jacket. Unusual. They usually had an audience of elderly ladies for the lunchtime chamber concerts. Not scruffpot lovegods with hopeful grins.

“I promise not to mention the screw-up to your boss,” he said, leaning in tight so his warm breath tickled her ear. He was nearly close enough for his stubble to scrape her cheek. And he pulled away so slowly that it made her pulse misfire.

“I’ll get my coat,” Izzy said, her voice a whisper.

* * *

“I don’t do this kind of thing,” Izzy said, blowing on the surface of her coffee. The café was busy, and they were sitting in a cramped side booth. Opposite her, the guy let a smile spread across his face. She got a fluttering feeling in her solar plexus. Under the table, his foot butted against her stockinged leg.

“Herbal tea more your style?” he said.

“I mean—I don’t usually go out with strangers I meet at work.”

He nodded. He let his gaze dance over her face and down to her plunging neckline, where it stuck. She had to fight not to follow the trail his eyes took with a finger.

“That’s cool,” he said. His voice dropped through the floor. “To tell you the truth, I don’t usually do this either,” he whispered, just as Izzy felt his hand brush her knee under the table. Involuntarily, she gave a sharp intake of breath. He whistled, low, under his breath.

“I don’t know what it is.”

“What what is?”

“Something about you. You make me want to do crazy things.”

“Like what?”

“Like this.”

His knuckles grazed the nylon of her tights and dragged up over the curve of her thigh. He leaned over the table and brushed his mouth over hers with the lightest of touches, just enough to make her lips buzz.

“Wow.” He pulled back and looked her over like she was a creature from outer space. “You make me feel kind of reckless. I think I like it. What about you?”

For a long moment Izzy couldn’t answer him. She wasn’t sure if she was more stunned by his audacity or by the fact that she hadn’t pulled away.

“I don’t even know your name,” she said at last.

“It’s George.”

She nodded, let the tip of her tongue play over her lips where he’d kissed her.

“Izzy,” she said. “I think I like it, too.”

He shoved a knee between her legs.

“Shall I keep going?”

Izzy answered without thinking. “Don’t stop.”

He gripped her thighs. Izzy gripped the red leather of the seat. George’s jaw tensed and he clouded over. For a minute, she thought she saw something more than the lust of a stranger in his expression. As he worked his way over her, rubbing through the layers of material and nylon, they were silent. Izzy couldn’t help breathing harder, but she stiffened her spine and moaned and tried not to move.

Behind them, the waiters shouted to each other in Italian. Outside, the city rushed past in a blur of blue traffic. Underneath the table, George’s hands kept busy.

“Oh my God,” Izzy said, eyes widening.

“You like that,” George said, pinching harder.

“No—I mean, yes.” Izzy said, struggling to breathe. “Marcella. From work, she’s right over there.”

“I should stop?”

“No. I mean, please. Please don’t.”

“Did she see you?”

“Not yet.”

“You’re blushing.”

Izzy moaned, trapped in a cozy little booth, with a stranger’s hands between her legs. Her conscious mind screamed for her to run away. It seemed her body was pinned to the seat.

Suddenly, George pulled back, straightened up and took a sip of his coffee. His hand shook a little. Izzy was left teetering on the brink and ready to scream.

“What’s going on?” Izzy said, aware that her voice sounded desperate. She was also uncomfortably aware she would probably be prepared to beg.

George puffed air through his mouth.

“Go to the ladies’ room,” he said, sliding a knife from his place setting across the table. “Take this with you.” He nudged her hand with the blunt side of the blade.

“Whoa, I’m not—”

“Cut your tights,” George said, interrupting her. “You need to make it so I can reach you properly. Please.”