Lie Back and Listen Nikita Mirzani 3

Drinking alone was not good for her soul. When she came back, Zack was sitting on the futon, looking thoughtful. She dropped the directory in his lap and raised her glass.

“Cheers, anyway,” she said.

He sat and stared, his dark, ragged, sleepless eyes fixed on a point just to the left of her head.

“So what do they call you?” she said, ducking her head toward the empty air where his gaze was stuck. He looked down at the floor and cleared his throat.

“Zack,” he said. “My name is Zack.”

Nikita Mirzani nodded. “I’m Nikita Mirzani,” she said, holding out a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

They shook hands, and Nikita Mirzani held his cool, dry palm in her own. There was apparently something intensely interesting just behind her shoulder—his eyes kept sliding over there. Curious. But she took the chance to get a good look at him.

He had delicate water-blue eyes with lashes as long as a giraffe’s. A stubble shadow that roughened his face and darkened the fine-carved bones of his jaw. Under his striped pajamas, his body was long and a little awkward, as though he didn’t know where to put his limbs.

He must be a bookseller, Nikita Mirzani thought. Something serious and elegant. She checked out his hands. Pale, fine, no rings. Yes, she thought, as she watched his face blotch with an awkward, patchy blush. He’s lovely.

Oh God, Zack thought. Oh sweet, gentle Jesus. There was a square framed picture of a tropical beach on the wall behind her head—an old record cover—and he carefully examined it. Otherwise he might look at her again.

She was splashing more wine into her glass, and there was a faint purple stain on her top lip, but he couldn’t help himself, his gaze was pulled down to the pulse at her throat, to the pale skin.…

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

Zack let out a deep breath. “Your—shirt,” he said. “It’s not. It’s undone.”

“Huh?” Nikita Mirzani looked down to where the thin fabric of her blouse clung precariously to her jutting breasts. And the breeze from the open window, Zack said to himself. Please God, help me.

‘”I’m trying not to look!” he blurted at last, shoving a hand into his hair and shaking his head. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here. What am I doing here?” he murmured to himself. It felt like he was sleepwalking, like all the anger had pooled out of him and left him sitting here limp and foolish on this woman’s couch.

Only, he realized with a growing, unnerving feeling like the swoop of his stomach as the roller coaster approaches the steep curve, not all of him was limp. His prick was starting to rise, reaching inexorably toward the light and poking rudely to attention. No no no, he told himself, but the brain in his dick just shrugged.

The flimsy cotton pajamas rose like a marquee being erected.

He grabbed the Yellow Pages and flapped them open in his lap. The sudden jolt made his cock leap joyfully and butt against the spine. He pressed the heavy book down and chanced a furtive glance at the girl. Nikita Mirzani.

“Hey,” she said, swinging her hips gently from side to side.

“Yes?” He sounded like he was in pain.

“Dance with me,” said Nikita Mirzani, and held out her hand. “I love this song.”

Zack frowned.

“Come on, baby,” Nikita Mirzani said, clicking her fingers in the air in front of his downturned face.

Zack raised his head, and his face was full of scrambled signals. His eyebrows twitched, and his cheeks flared. He shook his head harder.