by K. Bromberg
“Would you like a drink?” he asks placing his hand on the small of my back and leading me to the bar before I can respond.
“Sure. Yes.” What in the hell am I doing? I take the seat he offers and welcome the chance to talk rather than head straight upstairs. Especially when Vivi and Jordan are standing in view just over his shoulder where I can see them watching us while silently giving me fist pumps. “What’ll you have?” I ask.
“I believe that’s my question considering I asked you if you’d like a drink,” he says with a ghost of a smile.
We stare at each other for a beat, a small battle of wills over who’s in control, before I clear my throat and let him know what to order for me. It’s a small concession in the scheme of things.
He places our drink orders, his attention on the bartender, while mine is fully on him. “What exactly are we doing?”
Brilliant question, Stevie. Freaking brilliant. It takes everything I have not to roll my eyes.
“It seems self-explanatory. A drink or two. A little conversation. Perhaps some flirting.”
“Flirting?” I ask as he shifts in his seat, and I get the hint of a sculpted chest from beneath his open dress shirt.
“Yes. I’m more than certain a woman as gorgeous as yourself knows exactly how to do that,” he says as he slides money across the bar and hands me my drink.
“I’m sure I do.” There’s a moment where we stare at each other as if we’re the only two people in this bar. And it’s weird for me, not the being attracted to him part, but rather my almost desperate want for him to like me—when normally I couldn’t care less.
“So, Scarlett,” he says, “I take it you’re not from Vegas?”
“No. Just visiting.”
“And you decided that of all the men in the bar, I’m the one you want to target.” There is an aloofness in his tone. An incredulity to it that tells me he might not be game for my sudden interest.
I’m not sure how that makes me feel.
“Why am I getting the feeling that you find my interest in you hard to believe?” I ask as I play with the straw in my drink. “Should I be worried that I’ve picked the wrong man to set my sights on?”
He chuckles. “That remains to be seen . . . but I’m just curious as to why.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Yes. Why?” He glances over his shoulder and waves to where Vivi and Jordan are pretending miserably not to be monitoring what the two of us are doing. “How do I know this isn’t some game that you and your friends have concocted to see who could get a guy to bite first for some ridiculous prize? Or better yet, how do I know this isn’t some scam where you’re going to take me up to my hotel room, tie me up, and then the three of you are going to rob me blind?”
I stare at him, at his coy smile and playful eyes, and secretly love that he’s not a pushover. Too many men are when it comes to a beautiful woman and even the remote chance of getting lucky with her. Not that I know from personal experience or anything.
“Tying you up? That remains to be seen,” I say, repeating his words back to him and hoping the words come off as sexy when they feel so lame on my lips. “But one thing’s for sure, this isn’t a game, and I’m not a con artist.”
“Then what is it?” he asks as he swings my barstool so that both of my knees are between his, placing a hand on my bare leg.
My heart lurches at the connection, and I pray he doesn’t feel my pulse pounding beneath his touch.
“It’s me looking across the bar and finding you compelling and attractive. It’s me having one more night before I have to return to the everyday grind of my life and wanting to live a little.” I lean in close to him so he can smell my perfume and feel the heat of my breath against his ear when I whisper, “It’s me wanting to feel a little. Trust me when I say that’s all it is.”
“Trust is a tricky thing,” he murmurs as his fingers close around my wrist and hold it still. I meet him stare for stare and don’t back down until he murmurs, “Jesus,” and the rumble of that word has anticipation fluttering in my stomach.
“What about you? Should I guess? You’re here in Vegas for work. You’re some kind of high-power someone who enjoys being in control and telling people exactly what they should and shouldn’t be doing. While you’re not opposed to the temptations of the casino, it’s really not your thing considering your need for control, so what you really want is someone to hook up with. Someone who has no objections to a quick one-night stand where the woman you sleep with doesn’t tell you her real name nor promise to whisper sweet nothings in your ear. And after said fun, she walks out while you head to your meetings tomorrow no worse for the wear.”
“That’s quite a supposition,” he says, head angling to the side, and all traces of his playful smile are gone as he studies me.
“It is, but then again, it’s true, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps, but there is such a thing as coming on too strong.” He leans in close and whispers, “Anything worth wanting should be slightly harder to get.”
His words hit me in a way that’s foreign to me. Rejection isn’t something I’m used to, and I do believe he just rejected me.
“And yet you’re intrigued.” I run my tongue over my bottom lip to lick away a drop of my drink. He notices. He definitely notices. “Interested even.”
“Who said I was interested?” he asks as he shifts his gaze and then his head to eye a woman who walks past us.
I clear my throat. “Eyes on the prize, Rhett.”
“Old habits die hard, sweetheart.” He laughs and shakes his glass so the ice clinks against its sides. “Where were we again?”
My laugh is low and taunting, my bravado definitely back in place. The fingernail I draw up the center of his chest even more so as I entice him to only have eyes for me. “You’re interested all right. You can sit here and act like right now your cock isn’t begging you to say yes, but it is. Your mind’s still processing but your body is already in the elevator heading upstairs.”
Oh my God. Did I really just say that? Did those words actually come out of my mouth?
Yes. Yes, they did.
He lifts an eyebrow as a chuckle falls from between his sexy lips. “What if I said no?”
“Then you’d be a fool to pass this up,” I state matter-of-factly.
“Think quite highly of yourself, don’t you?”
I shrug unapologetically. “Lucky for you I do because you’re the only one who’s walked in here tonight that has had me looking twice.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.” He shifts in his chair so that his inner thighs rub against my outer ones. I refuse to admit to myself that the sudden hitch in my breath is in reaction to his touch.
“Does any of that really matter if, after the next few drinks, I’m going to ask you to take me up to your room?”
He gives a shake of his head and smirks as his eyes hold mine in a way that unnerves and turns me on all at once. And without pretext or preamble, Rhett slides a hand to the back of my neck and brings his mouth to mine.
He doesn’t coax my lips open with his tongue, but rather assumes I’ll open for him. He doesn’t ask, he just takes. With his lips and his tongue and the scrape of his stubble against my chin and with the dominant slide of his hand from my neck to my cheek.
He tastes of the whiskey he’s drinking and of desire that matches what’s thrumming through my veins. He’s not hurried in his kiss. It’s slow but demanding, soft but wanting, and has every nerve in my body standing at attention as I lift my hands and fist them around his biceps.
Now this? This is a kiss most definitely worth waiting for.
The sounds of the slot machines fade away. The chatter of those around us disappears. His kiss owns me in the best ways possible and hints (hopefully) at the thoroughness of other things he does just as well.
And before I can process that it’s over, Rhett breaks his lips from mine. Without a word, he sits back with a satisfie
d, smug smile curling up the corners of that tempting mouth of his.
I’m sitting here before him acting like I’m unaffected when in reality, I feel like I was just thoroughly knocked on my ass. A part of me hates that he doesn’t look how I feel—wanting more when I’m not a woman who gets weak in the knees.
But my knees are weak and the apex of my thighs ache with want.
Another round of drinks is slid before us but neither of us breaks from looking at one another to notice.
“You’ll do,” I finally murmur, assuming the words will challenge him to prove he can do better. That he’ll drop this game and show me just how much better he can do. And simply because my thoughts fell out of my mouth because I’m too flustered by his kiss to stop them.
“I’ll do?” He laughs.
“Yep. You passed.” I lean back in my seat, adjusting my one leg crossed over my other and subsequently rubbing it ever so slightly along the inseam of his pants.
His body stills, and I can assume his own instincts understand clearly that this is in fact a game I’m playing. Not one with Vivi and Jordan, but one between him and me. Who will cave first? Who will admit they want the other enough to make the first move out of this crowded casino?
“I wasn’t aware I was taking a test.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “Everything is a test, is it not? Besides, if a man can kiss like that, then there’s a supposition he has other skills that are just as impressive too.”
I make the comment to get a reaction from him but he just sits there swirling his glass and watching the whiskey eddy around its insides. He purses his lips for a beat before his eyes lift to mine. “Do you really want this, Scarlett?”
His words have me faltering. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t be offended. You’re talking with such confidence but there’s a waver just beneath it—a flash of uncertainty—that tells me you’re not one hundred percent comfortable with what you’re trying to pull here.”
I despise that he sees through me this easily. That he sees the doubt and uncertainty that hums just beneath the desire. That he realizes as much as I’m trying to be this person, she’s not me, but rather I’m just trying on her shoes for the night. Just trying to step outside of the person I’m caged into being and live more than I’ve been allowed to.
And hell, if a well-deserved orgasm comes with the new shoes I’m trying on, then who am I to say no?
Everybody deserves to live a little outside of their comfort zone, so why is he challenging me while I’m trying to break outside of mine?
“It shouldn’t be this hard to get laid,” I mutter.
“Ah, but it should if it’s worth it.” He stands and throws some cash on the bar, as I stare at him with confused shock when he begins to walk away.
“Wait. What?” I sputter as his chuckle trails back to me before he turns.
“Are you coming?”
There’s a lift of his eyebrow that taunts and says those three words were chosen carefully.
STEVIE
THE NERVES HIT.
As they should for any normal person when she’s standing toward the back of an elevator, riding up to floor thirty-four with a man who can kiss her senseless and whose hand feels like it’s burning a hole into the small of her back where it rests.
He smiles and nods to passengers who are coming on and off the car while I stand there suddenly freaked out over how I let Vivi and Jordan talk me into this, and at the same time, feeling a rush of adrenaline.
Or is that the alcohol?
Regardless, we’re stepping off the elevator and Rhett is escorting me to his room without saying anything. There’s only the heat of his body behind me and the crackle of undeniable sexual tension between us.
I can understand it now. What Jordan and Vivi were talking about. The allure. The excitement. The . . . unknown.
He slides the key card into the lock. Once the lock clicks to green, he opens and shuts the door, escorting me into a room that’s decent but nowhere near what my penthouse looks like. There is paperwork and a laptop on the table near the window that gives a perfect view of the blinking lights on the strip and a suitcase standing unopened on the floor.
We walk a few feet into the room before he turns to me. There’s challenge in the look he gives me, almost as if he’s saying, “You got what you wanted, now what are you going to do about it?”
My heart is racing and my breath is coming fast. I know I could chicken out, walk out of the room, and just lie to Vivi and Jordan about it to save face . . . but I don’t want to. There’s nothing wrong with being more than attracted to a man and wanting to enjoy him in every possible way.
With a slow and steady deep breath, I step into Rhett and initiate the first kiss. I slide my hands up the plane of his chest, the crisp dress shirt cool beneath my palms, before sliding them around his neck and slanting my lips over his.
And so the kiss begins. It’s a slow dance of lips and tongue, of moans and contented sighs, of my body meeting his as he’s pressed against the wall, while his hands still at his sides. Whereas the first kiss downstairs was more of a challenge to test me, this one holds more restraint. It’s still erotic and sexy as hell the way his tongue dances with mine and how soft yet demanding his lips are, but he’s holding back.
He’s not touching me.
His hands are at his sides almost as if he’s letting me take the reins when it’s him I want guiding this, him I want controlling this.
I take a step back and break from the kiss. Our eyes meet and a small thrill shoots through me as I take in his lust-heavy eyelids and the impressive bulge pressing against the seam of his pants. His shoulders are rising up and down like mine are as we both try to catch our breath and process the turn this night has taken.
“This isn’t a game, Rhett,” I murmur as I reach out skim my fingernails over the fabric of his shirt. He watches me, the warmth of his breath hitting my skin, the shift of his gaze to my lips and then back up, sexy as hell. And that in and of itself, spurs me on. “I’m just a confident woman who finds you attractive.” I undo the first button. “Who wants you.” Another one is undone and it gives me a glimpse of a toned, tanned chest. Nerves give way to desire. “Who wants you to touch her.”
And there is something about those six words that are like striking a match. Because with them, Rhett has our position flipped in a heartbeat—me with my back against the wall and him with his body pressing me into it.
His hands move now.
They move in sync with his mouth on mine and then as if it’s not enough, he inches up my skirt, his firm fingertips against the softness of my thighs. He slides his hand beneath the lace of my panties and cups my bare ass as he grinds into the V of my thighs.
It’s a taunt. A tease. A temptation I want to give in to.
His mouth closes over my breast through the fabric of my tank top and I arch my back, pushing myself into him. The warm heat of his mouth is a sensation all in itself, but it’s his fingers finding purchase between my thighs that draws a low moan from me.
He matches my moan with a guttural groan of his own when he slips his fingers beneath my panties to find me warm, wet, and more than willing. I spread my feet farther apart to give him access to take control, as I welcome the onslaught of sensations.
Anything to make me feel something again.
Anything to make me forget everything for just a bit.
My hands go to him. In a flurry of motion, I unbutton the rest of his shirt and with his mouth back on mine, he pulls his arms out of his sleeves. His biceps are firm and the only thing I can grab on to while his fingers are eliciting sensations and pleasure. All I can think about is touching him, feeling him, causing him to make the same strangled moans that are falling from my mouth.
My hands are on his pants. His button. His zipper. Sliding beneath the waistband of his underwear until my fingers wrap around the velvety smooth hardness of him. His groan fills my ears and it’s everything I need to hear—he
wants this as bad as I do.
He cups me, fingers moving in, the palm of his hand adding pressure to the hub of nerves begging to find its release, all while his lips create a devastating trail of open-mouthed kisses down the curve of my neck, to the shell of my ear, to my collarbone and below.
My body thrums with anticipation and arousal and all I can think is more. I want more of him. I need more of him.
Our mouths connect again as his fingers work at a fever pitch to bring me to that cusp of wanting more and begging him to stop until he’s in me.
But I’m already past the point of no return. Already tensing my hands on his biceps, already bucking my hips against his hand, already moaning incoherently as the orgasmic haze washes over me.
“Christ,” he murmurs, our breaths panting against each other’s before his teeth tug gently on my bottom lip. His pants and belt give a clink as they drop around his ankles. “Condom. We need—”
“Yes. Condom. Yes,” I say, still dazed by him, by this, by the climax that tore through me without mercy. My lips meet his and my hand runs up and down the length of his shaft one last time.
“Be right back.” He steps out of his pants and strides naked into the bathroom giving me a more than ample view of his gorgeous backside and broad shoulders.
But . . . Oh my God. My head is spinning as I slide my skirt down to my feet. I feel weak. Sated. Dizzy. I had no freaking idea orgasms could do . . . that.
FINN
CHRIST.
How did this happen?
Not that I’m complaining but a quick trip down to the bar for a drink or two to relax after a long flight was not supposed to end up with a gorgeous woman in my room, and her arousal still wet on my hands while I run to my bathroom to grab a condom to jacket up.
Yet here we are.
I chuckle at the thought as I roll the condom over my cock and stride back into the room.