Raw Heat

by Cherrie Lynn

  “It isn’t.”

  “Damn, that dress worked, didn’t it?” When Emma only sighed, Liz was quiet for a long time. “Okay. So you said Ben was down thirty grand.”

  Emma lay stretched out on her couch, her feet propped up on one of her throw pillows, a hand clapped over her eyes. She’d pulled every curtain in the house and it was still too bright. “Roughly. That was before last night. I don’t know how much he lost when he busted.”

  “Say thirty-five then, or even forty. That’s barely over a grand a day.”

  “So?”

  “You should have asked for at least two. Or three. Why not go for a cool hundred thou?”

  “Liz! I’m not doing this for my monetary gain.”

  “Why not? Get something out of it for yourself.”

  “That isn’t what this is about.”

  “What is this about? You’ve said many times how hot he is. Do you like him?”

  She picked a thread off the back of her couch cushion. “I don’t know. Kind of. Hey, I haven’t said many times how hot he is.”

  “Yes, you have. Many, many times. From the first day you met the guy.”

  She remembered that meeting as if it had happened yesterday. The way he’d stared her directly in the eyes the entire time they spoke. The confidence. She hadn’t always been able to meet that penetrating gaze directly. He’d probably seen the heat rising in her face.

  Liz went on. “You know what would trouble me more than the thought of scorching, meaningless sex for thirty days? Falling for the guy.”

  What had Damien said? They were both adults. He apparently thought they would do this, Ben’s debt would be paid, and Emma would go back to being his dutiful employee, no harm, no foul. For all she knew, he did crazy shit like this all the time. “What kind of arrogance does a man have to possess to even think of something like this? And to think he can pull it off?”

  “Is it arrogance, or is it confidence?”

  “An insane amount of confidence. I don’t know, I want to say he’s arrogant but it doesn’t come off as obnoxious. He comes up with this crazy idea and then takes care of me when my head was in the toilet. Drunk as I got, he probably could’ve violated me twenty different ways, but he didn’t. Left me a rose this morning, even.”

  “Wants to fuck you senseless for thirty days and take you to Las Vegas. Sounds like my dream boss. If you’re smart, you’ll dupe him into a drunken quickie wedding before you come home.”

  Emma laughed. “You’re as bad as Benjamin. When did I become surrounded by you morally repugnant people? I had no idea.”

  “Yes, you did, you just chose to ignore it. I think you ought to take full advantage of this situation. Life is short. Buy the shoes, eat the cake, fuck the guy.”

  “Until you get evicted for nonpayment of rent, type-two diabetes, and pregnant. Then you might regret those decisions.”

  “Everything in moderation, my dear.”

  They hung up soon after. But Emma’s mention of pregnancy, though said in jest, had stuck in her brain and resonated. She was on birth control, but things happened, and sexual health was a conversation she and Damien needed to have. As two adults and all. She grabbed her phone and his red envelope and added his number to her contacts under the name “Satan” along with a red devil emoji. Then she opened a text message.

  Thanks for my car and the rose. Planning what to bring when I invade your space. Shall I provide the condoms or will you?

  Jesus Christ, she thought just as she hit send. Hopefully that really was his number and not, like, an assistant. Some obscure position that helped out with his illicit affairs. Hell, if that were the case, then they ought to be used to it.

  He was responding already. Emma felt her pulse in her ears. Her head pounded with the force of it as she waited for the message to pop up.

  I’ll provide a clean bill of health if you will.

  That’s great, she wrote back, but I’m the only one who can get pregnant.

  Not much danger of that. I’ve had a vasectomy.

  Emma nearly dropped her phone when she read those words. Why? He was a young guy. What made him think he would never fall in love and want to start a family? She didn’t know what to say for a long time. She made another cup of coffee, went outside and watered her plants. Spoke to her neighbor over the fence, who, thankfully, didn’t mention spotting any wild Jaguars in the night. When she went back inside to fix herself a sandwich for lunch, she’d formulated her thoughts enough to text him back.

  That makes me sad. I’d like to know why, if you would tell me.

  The reply was quick. I didn’t have the best childhood.

  Doesn’t mean you couldn’t give a kid a great one, she said. It was his decision, of course, but she couldn’t help but push. Had things been so bad for him that he didn’t think he had anything good to pass on? It simply wasn’t true.

  I would adopt. Too many kids in the system.

  Wow. She’d expected a stone-cold rejection of the demands of children or parenthood in general. Not this.

  Emma had never given much thought to being a parent. She wasn’t necessarily opposed to it, but it damn sure wasn’t on her radar any time soon. She kind of recoiled whenever a family member or friend offered to let her hold a newborn. Something about his philosophy, though, warmed her heart against her will. Whatever he’d gone through, it must’ve had a deep impact on him.

  Still, though. It seemed rather extreme for him to feel so strongly about not reproducing that he’d go get himself cut before he was even thirty.

  Then there were guys like Benjamin, who were probably out knocking up half the city and not giving a shit. Who knew how many nieces and nephews Emma already had?

  Funny how she hadn’t heard from her brother all day after he’d gambled on her honor and lost. Not that she cared. If she never saw his face again, it would be too soon.

  How are you feeling? Damien texted.

  There, see? The damn owner of her soul was checking up on her when Ben couldn’t be bothered. He was still probably hungover, but she was, too, and at least she was trying to function. Somewhat. I’m managing. Are you at home or work?

  Home. Meant to tell you—you don’t need to bring anything.

  Um . . . I sorta need clothes. Send. At least part of the time. Send. Unless you want to parade me up and down the Strip naked. Send.

  You’ll have them. But there’s a thought.

  She’d have them? She was furiously typing away when his next message bubble popped up. And don’t argue.

  Ugh. Fine. She’d apparently agreed for him to not only fuck her, but to dress her for thirty days. I guess you’re running this show, she said.

  Don’t forget it.

  Chapter Seven

  Good morning. It’s day one. Go to Stillwater Spa at eleven a.m. Ask for Savannah. Relax.

  And that was it, the only words in the text message waiting for her when she opened her eyes the morning of the first day.

  He didn’t have to remind her that it was day one; she’d tossed and turned all night thinking about it. Emma wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but that wasn’t it. Well . . . scratch that, she knew what she’d been expecting. Show up in my office wearing black lace crotchless panties or Clean my house naked or something clearly designed to punish or humiliate her for being so stupid as to help her idiot brother.

  Certainly not Go pamper yourself on my dime.

  God, she hadn’t been to a spa in ages. What had he sprung for? A massage? Her skin tingled just to think of it, the little crick behind her shoulder blades making itself known as she rolled over in bed. A mani/pedi? She lifted one hand from under the covers and eyed her bitten-to-the-quick nails, imagining them long and perfectly polished. Maybe a naughty hot pink. Something decisively not her. Because this entire month was going to require her to be not her. Someone else.

  And maybe Damien wanted her to be someone else. Emma wished she could ignore the forlorn little hiccup her heart gave at th
e thought. That isn’t true, she assured the wayward organ. This was all his idea. If he doesn’t want it just as it is, he shouldn’t have ordered it up.

  Well, she’d slept in longer than she’d intended, so if she wanted to make it to the spa by eleven, she needed to get a move on.

  Savannah was a willowy, dark-haired beauty with a sweet smile and a gentle demeanor. She wore blush-pink scrubs that heightened her already immaculate skin, and Emma was immediately suspicious. “Are you Damien’s friend?” Savannah greeted as she came from the back to meet Emma in the waiting room, where the trickle of the water fountain and the soft, tranquil music piping in had almost put her to sleep again. She was in a plush robe, having already undressed and left her things in a locker.

  Emma handed over the clipboard of information she’d been asked to fill out and pulled a wry face. “I don’t know. Will you hold it against me?”

  Savannah laughed and motioned for her to follow. “Not at all. He’s my future brother-in-law.”

  “Oh! Wow. So . . . are you marrying the rock star or the fighter?”

  “The fighter. Michael. I just moved here from New Orleans a couple of months ago. Got way too tired of the long-distance thing.” Savannah led her into a dimly lit room with more fountains and soothing ambient sounds. “Are there any trouble spots you want to work on today?”

  Emma pounced on that. “Shoulders. Always aching.”

  “You must sit hunched over your keyboard all day.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “We’ll work on that. I have you down for a sugar scrub and hot stones. Is that okay?”

  That sounded heavenly. “Absolutely. Thank you.”

  Savannah left her so she could slip off her robe and slide under the covers on the table. While she wanted to relax and enjoy the next hour in silence, she wasn’t sure she could make it without pumping one of Damien’s future family members for information. It seemed an opportunity too good to pass up. When Savannah let herself back in the room, Emma had a hundred questions ready to fire, but as soon as the girl touched her with the divinely scented scrub coating her hands, they melted away in total bliss. A mere twenty seconds in, as the tension of the past weeks began to bleed from her muscles, she knew Savannah’s kneading fingertips were magical.

  All too soon, though, she had to go shower off the mango-and coconut-scented scrub, loving the fragrant softness of her skin afterward. Then it was back on the freshly sheeted table for her hour-long massage.

  “Let me know if you need more or less pressure,” Savannah told her, folding the sheet down from her back so cool air circulated over her bare skin.

  “More is better,” Emma assured. As soon as Savannah’s hands were on her, though, she almost rethought that. Her hands were like steel. But God, even if there were moments Emma gritted her teeth, it felt sooo good.

  “You okay?”

  “Perfect,” Emma practically groaned. Questions could wait. Savannah went after the knots behind her shoulders, increasing the pressure almost until Emma’s breaking point and then releasing.

  “You are tense,” Savannah remarked as her touch went from fierce precision to soothing strokes, her voice soft so as not to break the mood.

  Can’t help it. My boss owns me for the next month. Emma wanted to unload it all, but this wasn’t the time and certainly not the person. Liz was the one who’d been hearing it all. Problem was, Liz was terrible at commiserating. Her best friend was jealous.

  The hour went by too fast, but Savannah uncovered tender muscles Emma hadn’t even noticed until now, and the heat of the stones seeping through her skin was more heavenly than she could’ve hoped. Okay, maybe Damien deserved to get laid for giving her this. Not that it wasn’t something she could’ve done for herself. She made a mental note to make time for things like this in her life.

  “I hope you enjoyed your massage,” Savannah said, and suddenly Emma realized the hour was up and she wanted to cry. All she could manage was a sleepy “Mm-hmm.”

  “You have a full day with us, so you can put your robe on and I’ll bring you some water with lemon. Ashley will come get you for your mani/pedi and Christina for your wax.”

  Wax? Oh, hell. What trim did he fucking prefer? she wondered. Better not be Brazilian. She wasn’t too keen on looking like raw chicken cutlets down below. She’d at least leave him a landing strip and he’d better be okay with it.

  She kept her thoughts flippant because the thought of Damien Larson’s dark, carnivorous eyes on her most secret parts knocked the breath from her and made her sway on her feet as she stood from the table.

  What am I doing?

  Emma managed to get her robe back on, but her knees were so unsteady she sat in the lone chair in the room and dropped her face into her hands, breathing deeply. She was still there when Savannah tapped on the door sometime later.

  “Emma, do you feel okay?” she asked worriedly when Emma told her to come in.

  “I’m fine. Just . . .” How much could she reveal? But she needed to talk to someone who knew this man she was about to spend a month of her life with. “Is Damien . . . good?”

  Savannah closed the door behind her and knelt in front of Emma’s chair, putting a little cup of water with a slice of lemon into her hand. “Is he good?”

  “Is he a good person?” Emma took a sip.

  “I’ll be honest. I don’t know him well. I lived in New Orleans, like I said, and he and Michael and Zane live here, so I haven’t spent much time with him. But I will say this. His older brother is the most wonderful man I’ve ever met, or I wouldn’t be ready to spend the rest of my life with him. And Michael is devoted to Damien. He raised him from the time he was fourteen. I won’t go into details, but they had it very rough growing up.”

  “I gathered that much.”

  “I think Damien enjoys excess so much because they all came from nothing. I do know he’s incredibly generous with it, though.”

  “I’ve gathered that, too. On one hand he’s like that, but on the other he just has this . . .” Emma struggled for the right word, “this cutthroat view of life.”

  “Well, I guess I can hardly blame him, given some of the things I’ve learned.”

  “Is Michael that way?”

  Savannah sighed. “He’s wonderful, like I said. But we can’t ignore the fact that he does beat the shit out of other men for a living, and quite enjoys it.”

  Emma had to laugh, and decided right then that she liked Savannah a lot. “Good point.”

  “He and I met because my brother collapsed and died shortly after fighting him. It wasn’t Michael’s fault at all, even if at first we all wanted it to be. Fact was, Tommy had a brain injury we didn’t know about and shouldn’t have been fighting in the first place. Zane is now engaged to his widow. It’s a very tangled web.”

  Emma didn’t follow sports at all, but even she thought she vaguely remembered hearing about a fighter dying in the ring awhile back. “Wow. I’m so sorry about all that.”

  “Thank you.” Savannah studied her for a moment. “Damien didn’t elaborate when he set this up. He just said you were a friend and employee. Is something else going on?” She squeezed Emma’s hand. “I won’t tell.”

  Somehow she trusted her implicitly. “I’m . . . I don’t know. Yes. But . . . it’s insane. I don’t think I can talk about it.”

  “If you want, I can give you my number. If you ever do need to talk, call me. Anytime. These Larson men are a handful.”

  “I appreciate that.” She felt a little better knowing she might have someone in her corner should things get too weird during the next month.

  Her fingernails looked so good after her French manicure that she couldn’t stop staring at them. And her toes matched. But then it was time to have the hair ripped out by the follicles in her nether regions, and though it was something she’d considered doing before, she’d always decided she was just fine pruning her own lady garden, thanks. At least they plied her with a glass of red wine beforehand.


  “What am I getting?” she suspiciously asked the cute blonde who came to get her for the procedure.

  The girl’s perfectly arched brows lifted. “That’s up to you.”

  “Oh. I figured he had specified.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing.” Emma chuckled and drained her wineglass of the remainder of its contents. “I might need a second glass of this. It’s quite good. But then I’d be looped and have no control over what comes out of my mouth when you rip the wax off. Never mind. Let’s do this!” she finished brightly, as the girl’s expression grew progressively more confused. Her usual clients must be slightly more amenable to her doing her task.

  She drove home much later feeling as if a blowtorch were aimed directly at her cooter, unable to remember what had come out of her mouth the first time Christina had ripped that strip off. She vaguely recalled cursing the day the girl was born once the blinding agony had abated enough for her to regain control over her powers of speech. At least she had a cute little Playboy strip to show for it, and Damien Larson had better like going down, because he owed her for that one.

  Big-time.

  But if the thought of his eyes on her pussy made her weak in the knees, the thought of his mouth there nearly made her drive off the road. That tongue of his was certainly skilled enough in laying out what he wanted, when he wanted it. She could only imagine what other tricks it might have.

  The kicker was that she was going to find out, and soon.

  Done, she texted him once she was home. What now?

  He was about twenty minutes replying. Emma hadn’t exactly wanted to sit there staring at the phone until the “read” receipt popped up, but she did. Be ready at eight for dinner.

  A swarm of butterflies exploded in her belly. She immediately called Liz.

  * * *

  When Damien was little, his mother had kept an old porcelain doll on a shelf in her bedroom. It was the one pristine, well-kept thing in the musty, claustrophobic house where he grew up. Emma’s immaculate skin and vivid hair color reminded him of that doll, something he hadn’t thought of in years.