by Regina Kyle
I break off the kiss but only to slide my mouth down her neck, leaving a hot, wet trail to the hollow of her throat. I’d like to explore even lower, to discover if she’s a basic bra or lacy lingerie kind of girl. Unfortunately, skilled as I am in the art of getting a woman out of her clothes, I can’t for the life of me figure out the thingamajig she’s wearing. There’s a row of buttons down the front, but when I try to undo the top one it doesn’t budge.
“You’re driving me crazy,” I groan. I try the next button. No dice. I’m ready to rip the fuckers off. “These goddamn buttons are driving me crazy.”
“They’re for decoration only,” she pants, arching into me. “There’s a zipper. In back.”
I reach around her, find the tab, and inch it down, my fingers grazing her bare skin on the journey. A line of goose bumps sprouts in their wake and I get a thrill knowing I did that to her, that she’s as into this as I am. I push the straps off her shoulders and down her arms, and the torture device drops to her waist, leaving her in only a pretty pink bra that barely contains her pale, perfect breasts.
Lacy lingerie. Score.
“Please.” Her slow grind picks up steam and her eyes drift shut. Her arms band around me like a vice, my fantasy about her nails digging into me becoming reality. She’s hot and wet against my thigh even through a layer of denim, and my sexual Spidey sense tells me she’s seconds from coming.
“Fuck, yeah. That’s it, baby,” I murmur against her neck, encouraging her. I tweak one nipple through the lace of her bra, and she sucks in a sharp breath. “Let go.”
A few more hip rolls and she does, throwing her head back and calling out my name. She continues to spasm for a few seconds until her arms loosen their iron grip on my midsection and she collapses against me, spent.
I pull the edge of one bra cup down and free her breast from its frilly prison, hopeful she’s up for another round where we both get off. Those hopes die a quick and painful death when an bone-rattling thump from the living room startles us. Because I’m the guy with the worst luck in the five boroughs, Roscoe, back from doggie dreamland, has chosen that exact moment to fall off the couch. He lifts his head and lets out a low, mournful howl that pierces my very soul.
Shit. This has the potential to be almost as bad as if the beast had been dognapped. My parents are going to flip out if their precious baby has a boo-boo.
“Don’t move.” I peel her arms from around my waist and step back, planting a hard, fast kiss on her bee-stung lips. “He’s probably fine, but I should at least check on him. I’ll be right back.”
I sprint to Roscoe’s side, and the howling stops as I do a quick head-to-tail exam. I’m no vet, but nothing feels broken. My diagnosis is confirmed when the big drama queen gets effortlessly to his feet and trots off toward my bedroom, presumably to take up residence on my bed.
“See?” I stand, wiping my hands on my shorts. “No harm, no foul. Now how about we pick up where we left off?”
But when I turn back to Ainsley, expecting to find her half-dressed and ready for more, my door swings shut with a hollow, ominous click, and she’s gone. I tunnel my hands through my hair and glare in the direction of my bedroom, swearing under my breath.
Fucking dog managed to cockblock me after all.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ainsley
“YOU DID WHAT? With a client?” My bestie Mia gapes at me, her glass of prosecco stalled halfway to her lips. We met in contracts class first year of law school at New York University, and even though I’m no longer practicing we’ve stayed close. She’s one of the only holdovers in my life from my legal-eagle days—and one of the few people who didn’t think I was crazy for chucking it all and starting over.
“Who are you?” she asks, her cherry lips twisting into an impish grin. “And what have you done with my best friend?”
I knock back the rest of my drink and plunk the glass down on the table. I knew it was a huge risk going out on the town with Mia tonight. Two rounds in, and my tongue’s already as loose as my morals were in Jake’s apartment earlier. But it’s too late to take the words back now. As my great-aunt Elizabeth used to say, in for a penny, in for a goddamn ton.
“I dry humped his leg like a bitch in heat.” And came so hard I saw stars. Without even taking off my clothes.
Mia lets out a low whistle. “Damn, girl. You sure know how to break a sexual drought.”
I stare her down. “Who said I was in a sexual drought?”
“You did. The last time we were here.”
Here is Tammany Hall, our favorite Greenwich Village dive bar. The drinks are cheap, the floor is sticky and the decor is a cross between a bordello and a hunting cabin, with an odd yet somehow soothing combination of red velvet and taxidermy. But the atmosphere is always friendly and on game days you can catch the Yankees and Mets on the dueling flat screens above the scarred oak bar.
I decide to ignore the issue of my heretofore virtually nonexistent sex life and plow on. I’ve started this story. I might as well finish it.
Unlike Jake, who didn’t get to finish. At least not with me. Who knows what he did after I cut and ran? Or came and ran.
I slam the door on the image of Jake with his dick in his hand, sliding his fist up and down his impressive length until he shoots his load all over those washboard abs I felt under his T-shirt, and signal the waitress for another drink. “That’s not all.”
“There’s more?” Mia lifts her now-empty glass, indicating she’s ready for a refill, too. “Please tell me that after the dry humping, you ripped his clothes off and rode him like a polo pony.”
I wish. “Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
She flips her long inky-black hair over her shoulder, and I swear two guys at the table next to us start visibly drooling. That’s Mia. Everywhere we go, she attracts attention, with her Cher-inspired locks, flawless olive skin and statuesque figure. The chart at the doctor’s office says I’m average height and weight, but next to her I feel like a bridge troll. If she wasn’t so stinking nice, and so oblivious to her effect on the male of the species, I’d have to hate her just on principle.
The waitress comes with round number three, and I hand off our empty glasses before taking a sip from my new one. “Let’s just say it wasn’t my finest moment.”
“Come on,” Mia whines. “Spill. You can’t leave me hanging.”
“Well, since you put it that way...” I let my words trail off, hoping she gets the general idea without me having to fill in the dirty details.
She cocks a perfectly shaped brow at me. “Stop being so evasive and spit it out.”
So much for subtlety. I try again, still tiptoeing around the subject but a little less delicately this time. “Leaving people hanging seems to be my MO today.”
“You did not get your jollies and leave him all hot and bothered, did you?” She takes one look at my face, which must have guilt written all over it, and knows the answer. “Oh my God, you totally did. You filthy little tease.”
“Hey, I told you it wasn’t my finest moment.” I take a hit of prosecco. This conversation definitely requires more alcohol. “Roscoe fell off the couch, and when Jake went to check on him, I bolted.”
“Roscoe?”
“The dog.” I bury my head in my hands with a groan. “It was humiliating. I couldn’t look him in the eye after grinding on his thigh like it was a stripper pole.”
“The dog?” she teases.
I lift my head long enough to shoot daggers at her. “Very funny.”
“Hey.” She takes my hands and pries them away from my face. “If I know men, you have nothing to be ashamed about. I guarantee he enjoyed it as much as you did.”
I’m starting to feel a tad bit better about my porn star performance when she throws in a zinger. “Of course, he probably would have enjoyed it more if you stuck around
for an encore.”
“Thanks for reminding me.” I reach for my drink. I seriously don’t know how I’m going to face Jake again. Maybe I can pass this job off to one of my assistants. Aaron loves dogs. He’d probably jump at the chance to hang out with Roscoe.
“I have idea.” Mia whips out her cell phone. “You said this guy Jake owns a club, right?”
“Yeah. Some high-end place in Chelsea.” Not my scene, for sure. Mostly celebs and artists, mixed with a smattering of uptown girls and downtown finance boys. Too crowded. Too noisy. Too stuffy. I prefer joints like the one I’m in now. Quirky. Cozy. And quiet enough to have an actual conversation.
“What’s it called?” she asks, tapping her screen to open her internet browser.
I try to dredge the name up from the recesses of my memory. Brie must have mentioned it a million times. She’s inordinately proud of her brother and his pull-himself-up-from-his-bootstrap success. “Top...something. Drawer, maybe. Or Shelf. Why?”
“We’re going there. Tonight.”
It’s a good thing I’m not mid-sip, or I would have spit prosecco all over Mia’s brand new chili-red Kate Spade canteen bag. “Why in hell would I want to do that?”
“So you can apologize.” She taps away on her phone, presumably Googling the name and address of the club.
“That is so not going to happen.”
“This must be it,” she says, continuing to stare at the screen as if she hasn’t heard me. “Top Shelf, 455 West 17th Street. I’ll order us an Uber.”
“Earth to Mia.” I reach across the table and snatch her phone. The woman is a force of nature once she gets rolling, so it’s imperative I stop her before this crazy idea of hers becomes a full-fledged plan of action. “I’m not Ubering anywhere.”
She stands and slings her purse over her arm. “Fine. We’ll catch a cab. Or take the subway. It’s only a few stops.”
“You’re not hearing me.” I don’t budge from my seat, hoping Newton’s first law will work in my favor. A body at rest tends to stay at rest, and here’s where I’m staying.
“I hear you perfectly fine. I’m just not listening. There’s a difference.” She holds out a hand for her phone, but I pull it out of her reach. “Seriously, Ainsley. Trust me on this. You’ll feel better once you’ve cleared the air.”
She may have a point. But it’s not one I’m willing to concede just yet. “I’ll text him.”
“Nice try, but I’m not letting you get off that easily. There’s too much room for ambiguity and misinterpretation in a text. Face-to-face communication is best.”
“Who says he’s even there?” Brie does. According to her, her brother practically lives at the club, so the odds are pretty strong he’s there now. Not that I’m admitting that to Mia.
“It’s a chance I’m willing to take. Besides, the Yankees are losing, and I’m in the mood for something more than cheap prosecco and stale nachos.” She waves a hand at the half-eaten basket of chips on the table.
I look down at my outfit. Mia, as always, is fine and fresh and totally fierce in a little black dress that’s far from standard and five-inch, fire-engine red heels that match her purse and jewelry. But there’s no way my nacho-stained tank top, skinny jeans and flip-flops are getting past the bouncer manning the velvet rope.
“I’m not dressed for the club scene.” It’s my half-assed, last-ditch effort to get out of this, but if I know Mia, she’ll have some solution at her fingertips. The girl is a never-ending fount of can-do. I don’t think the word no is in her vocabulary.
She doesn’t disappoint.
“My place is closest. We can stop there first.” She pulls two twenties from her purse and plunks them down on the table to cover our tab, waving off my protest. “You can borrow my Armani shift dress. You know, the navy one with the beaded-fringe hem.”
I palm my breasts, which are at least two cup sizes bigger than hers. “Like anything in your closet can contain these puppies.”
“It’s very forgiving. And a little cleavage will make your apology go over that much smoother.”
More like a lot of cleavage, but it’s clear there’s no point arguing with the force of nature that is Mia Hadid. I hand over her phone, the battle lost. The best I can hope for now is that by some miracle workaholic Jake has come to his senses and taken a night off. Or if he hasn’t, he’s too busy to deal with an insignificant errand girl with a tendency to hump and run, and I can convince Mia it’s socially acceptable to revert to my original text message plan.
I push my chair back and stand, snatching my wristlet from the table. “Fine. You can dress me up and take me out on one condition.”
She lets out a high-pitched squee, but I hold a hand up to stop her.
“Not so fast, Henry Higgins. You haven’t heard the condition yet.”
She frowns, creasing her perfect, normally wrinkle-free forehead. “Henry Higgins?”
“You know, from My Fair Lady.” She’s still staring at me like I have two heads, so I go on. “It’s a musical. Based on the play Pygmalion. He takes a lowly flower girl and turns her into a lady.”
“Figures. You and your show tunes.” She grimaces, but I know she’s not serious. She’s been my date to the theater more times than I can count in place of my Broadway-boycotting ex-boyfriend. “So what’s the condition?”
“By twelve o’clock I’m home and snug in bed.”
“But it’s almost eleven now,” she says, twisting her wrist to check the diamond-studded Patek Philippe she bought herself at Tiffany when she made partner last month. I brace myself for the flood of regret, the deluge of could-have-been-me’s, but they don’t come. All the confirmation I need that I made the right decision walking away. As if I needed more proof that my life is ten thousand times better as the owner of a boutique concierge service than it was as an overworked, overstressed attorney.
I link my arm through Mia’s and steer her toward the door. “Then we’d better get going. Because at midnight this lady turns back into an errand girl.”
CHAPTER SIX
Jake
“YOU CAN GO HOME, you know.” Connor’s voice comes from over my shoulder as I stare at the bank of computer screens that dominates my enormous chrome-and-glass executive desk. “You don’t have to be at the club every waking hour.”
“I could say the same thing to you,” I shoot back, tapping a button on my keyboard to flip from one security camera to another. It’s been a fairly uneventful night so far, but that could change at the drop of a hat. Or a beer bottle. It doesn’t take much to set tempers flaring, especially when alcohol is involved.
Connor rests his butt on my desk and waves a manila folder in my face. “I had to get the quarterly payroll taxes done. I was heading down the hall to drop them on Diane’s desk so she can double-check my math in the morning when I saw your light on. What’s your excuse?”
“Just keeping an eye out for trouble.” I switch screens again. “It’s a full moon. And the city’s in the middle of a heat wave, with no end in sight. All the crazies will be out tonight.”
“We have people for that. I believe they’re called bouncers.”
“I know that. I hired them.”
“Then what are you really doing here?” Connor folds his arms across his chest and cocks his head to give me the hairy eyeball. “Afraid to go back to your empty apartment now that your sister’s gone?”
“Are you kidding? The man cave’s all mine again. I can walk around buck naked. Leave the toilet seat up. Drink milk straight from the carton.” Not that I do any of that stuff. Much.
“Even assuming I buy what you’re shoveling, that doesn’t tell me why you’re still here.”
I shrug. “You know how it is. People like to rub shoulders with the club owners. Makes them feel special. And you hate that shit, so...”
He waves a hand at the bank of comp
uters. “Shouldn’t you be down there, then?”
“I was about to head out when you waltzed in.”
One eyebrow arches upward, making it obvious he still doesn’t believe me. “You sure that’s the reason you’re working late, and not that you’re obsessing over the Miami deal?”
“I’m not obsessing,” I insist, even though he’s half right. The Miami deal’s never far from my thoughts, even when I’m focused on something else. Making this thing happen means everything to me. If we can successfully expand into one new market, the whole world’s ours for the taking.
And I want the whole world, dammit.
“If you say so,” Connor says, his tone skeptical.
“I do.”
He reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You know, there’s no rush on this Miami thing. We’re going to have our hands full with the New York renovations. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to hold off on any other big projects until they’re done.”
“You worry about the renovations, and I’ll handle Miami. The market’s the softest it’s ever been in South Beach. Trust me, now’s the time to jump in.”
“I’ve trusted you since we were in Garanimals.”
“You were the one in Garanimals, dude. I was perfectly capable of matching my own clothes without the help of jungle creatures.”
“Right. Like that puke green and florescent orange striped shirt you liked to wear with those hideous plaid pants.”
“Stripes go with everything.”
He rolls his eyes. “Okay, Tommy Hilfiger. Just keep me up to date on Miami. And let me know if you need anything on my end.”