For the first time in his life, he’d struck out with a woman. And more, it was entirely, one hundred percent his fault.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHE NEEDED HER catering van, but every time she tried to park it she wished she drove something smaller. This driveway wasn’t big to begin with. Add in the various vehicles jammed like sardines in the driveway of the house she’d grown up in, and it was like squeezing ten pounds of potatoes into an eight-pound sack.
She managed to eke out a sliver of space behind a maroon sedan. From the garage she heard Metallica, volume turned up high, and knew that the full driveway meant that Beth was powering through an equally full day of repairs and maintenance in the mechanic shop she ran out of their garage.
She wouldn’t bother her. Instead, she grabbed the heavy rubber tote from the back of her van, arm muscles straining as she closed the van doors with her foot. Lugging it to the house, she set it down with relief, then dragged it through the front door and into the kitchen.
Prying off the lid, she started to remove the Tupperware cartons of leftovers from her commercial kitchen. She jumped when a voice came from behind her.
“A delivery came for you.” Meg squeaked with alarm, whirling to find Amy standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Gasping, she clasped a hand to her heart.
“You startled me.” She eyed the bottle of whiskey in Amy’s hands—the same kind she’d brought to John’s hotel room last night. The pear one. When hope sprouted in her chest, she tried to pull it out, but like a weed, it wouldn’t be uprooted. “Are you home for lunch? Good timing.”
Checking one of the containers she was unpacking, she slid it across the kitchen island to her sister, who placed the bottle of whiskey in front of Meg before checking out the contents of the Tupperware.
“Vietnamese dumplings?” Amy cooed with approval as she opened a drawer and pulled out a fork. “Come to me, my precious.”
“Aren’t you going to heat those up?” Meg grimaced as her sister speared a cold dumpling on her fork and shoved it into her mouth.
“Aren’t you going to check out your delivery?” Amy replied with her mouth full. She poked at the ribbon around the neck of the bottle. “There’s a card.”
Sighing, Meg traced fingers over the paper, then looked at her sister with narrowed eyes. “The envelope is open.”
“Is it?” Amy blinked at her innocently as she chose another dumpling. “I wonder how that happened.”
“Dude.” Meg frowned at her sister but ultimately was too tired to lecture her. She hadn’t slept well. She probably shouldn’t have even been driving; she was still so keyed up.
She was irritated at John’s high-handedness. But most of her anger was at herself.
She knew the score—he was leaving. She shouldn’t have had to keep reminding herself of this, but her traitorous emotions weren’t listening.
Tugging the card off the ribbon, she pulled the small note out of the envelope, keeping it angled away from Amy. Why, she wasn’t sure, since the knowing smirk on her sister’s face confirmed that she’d already read it.
I’m sorry. A fresh bottle for a fresh start? —J.
Huffing out a breath, she shoved the note into her pocket, then turned away from the bottle to finish loading the leftovers into the fridge.
“You should call him,” Amy offered as she chucked her empty container and fork in the sink. “I don’t think he’s a man who says sorry easily.”
“You should mind your own business.” She jabbed a finger in the air in Amy’s general direction. “And put your dishes in the damn dishwasher.”
“Is that minding your own business?” Amy asked innocently, though she did as requested.
“Brat,” Meg muttered as she sealed her now-empty tote back up and carried it to the front door.
“Call him!” Amy shouted after her. Meg slammed the front door in response.
Back at her van, she wrenched the back doors open and loaded the tote in. Perching on the edge for a moment to catch her breath, she ran her fingers over the pocket that held John’s note.
She was at a crossroads here. He’d stepped way out of line, and yet she knew he wouldn’t make that mistake again—he was a smart man. Did she really need to punish him, to punish them both, when she’d already proved her point?
Pulling up his contact on her phone, she called him, nerves flaring as she listened to it ring.
“How’s the whiskey?” he answered, and just hearing that voice of his, deep and rich and so damn sexy, made her a little bit weak in the knees. “Is it as juicy as a ripe pear?”
“I’m doing deliveries, so I wouldn’t know,” she retorted, her sharpness a last line of defense. “I don’t drink and drive.”
“That’s wise,” he replied dryly, not commenting on the fact that she was snippy. “Maybe you should continue to refrain so you can drive to the hotel later.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” She should say no. She knew she should say no. She shouldn’t want to be with someone who’d pulled what he had with Aaron, should she? Someone so controlling?
But isn’t that exactly what you want?
“Why don’t I tell you what I have planned?” His voice deepened, sending a shiver through her. “Then you can decide.”
She was silent for so long that he cleared his throat.
“There’s a bar a few doors down from my hotel. I’ll be there at seven sharp.” He paused, and she heard the sexy rasp of his breath in her ear. “You’ll come sit beside me. You won’t know me, and I won’t know you until you introduce yourself. You can be Meg, or you can be someone else entirely if that makes it easier for you to accept what you want from me.”
“And what if I decide I don’t want to be myself?” Meg swallowed thickly, envisioning the scene.
“No matter who you are, I’ll want you.”
* * *
John was propped against the scarred wooden surface of the bar in the dive he’d directed Meg to earlier when she walked in. His fingers clenched around his glass of neat whiskey, anticipation tightening his gut.
He wasn’t used to having to woo a woman. Wasn’t used to apologizing. Hell, he’d never cared enough about anyone to have a jealous fit to apologize for.
But the way she responded to him was like a drug. She wasn’t one of many women who’d read Fifty Shades and wanted to play at kink—she wanted, on a visceral level, to submit.
He pressed his lips together as he watched her scan the bar, her gaze coming to rest on him. Emotions flickered over her face for just a fraction of a second before she’d hidden them away again, and his spirits sank.
She wanted what he could do to her, but she wasn’t overly pleased to want him.
And why did he care? This was just a fling, an affair, right? They were scratching their mutual itch.
Except that he actually liked her. More than liked her. And he wanted to ruin her for everyone and anyone who dared to touch her after he was gone.
As he’d instructed, she made her way across the room, closing the distance between them until she could lean against the bar next to him. He lifted a hand to signal the bartender, but she batted it away, catching the woman’s attention herself. He watched, bemused, as she ordered the same thing he was drinking, though she hadn’t yet glanced at him or his drink. Only once it had arrived and she’d paid for it with cash, did she turn to face him.
Message received—she wanted to feel in control. She was probably slightly uncomfortable with being a strong woman, a business owner, the oldest of her sisters and also wanting to give up that control to him. She didn’t yet understand that she never did give it up, not really. Even when she placed her care in his hands, she held all the power.
“I thought I’d made a mistake when I pulled up here,” she started, taking a sip of her fresh drink. “This isn’t the kind of place I can p
icture you enjoying.”
“I had a hankering for substandard beer.” He grinned when she looked pointedly at his drink, which was not beer. “No, for real, the food here is supposed to be fantastic.”
“I’m not hungry.” She eyed him over the rim of her drink. “Not for food.”
His whiskey—not the caramel-pear one she’d brought him—burned a path down his throat as their surroundings faded away, his attention focusing in on Meg and only Meg.
“Are you sure?” Please be sure. “There’s no rush.”
“I know what I want.” She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, and his eyes tracked the movement, transfixed. “Are you going to give it to me?”
Setting his glass down firmly, he circled her wrist with his fingers and, with one sharp tug, pulled her against his body. She gasped softly as her breasts brushed against his chest, and she looked up at him with wide eyes.
“You’re awfully saucy tonight.” Cocking his head, he tracked his stare over her face, lingering on those lips that were just begging to be kissed. Dipping his head, he brushed his lips against her ear, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Maybe it’s time I find something else for your mouth to do.”
CHAPTER NINE
MEG COULDN’T CONTROL her nerves as she and John approached his hotel room. She heard the lock disengage as it detected John’s phone. He urged her through the door first with two fingers pressed to the small of her back. Then they were both inside, and her stomach did a slow roll of anticipation.
“Want another drink?” He gestured to the bottle of whiskey she’d brought the night before, which still stood on the table.
“No.” She didn’t want a drink; she didn’t want food. When he turned to face her, she saw the coiled tension in his lean frame and felt the warmth of smug satisfaction.
That tension was because of her—because he wanted her. So many women wanted him, and yet he was here, looking like a lion about to pounce, because of her.
She braced herself for the lion to attack and was unprepared when, rather than grabbing her, he gestured toward the bathroom.
“Let’s have a bath.”
“What?” She frowned, confused. “Why?”
“Partly because we smell like cheap beer and cigarettes,” he replied, eyes tracking the length of her body, “and partly because I want to get you wet and naked.”
“Oh.” She exhaled, and just like that, her body was on fire. She followed him to a bathroom three times the size of her bedroom at home. It was a study in white, clean and bright and luxurious, but what caught her attention was the giant Jacuzzi tub under the window.
She watched, silent, as John started the water, and she felt the kiss of steam on her skin. He added droplets from a selection of small essential oil bottles that lined the edge of the bath, and her next breath was full of bergamot and cedar wood.
That done, he turned to look at her. Eyes on hers, he pulled a condom from the pocket of his pants and set it on the edge of the tub. She swallowed a whimper when he quickly undid the buttons of his dress shirt, shrugging it open and then off. She hadn’t seen his naked chest before, and, oh, it was a work of art. He had to log serious hours in the gym, because for a man who spent most of his time sitting at a desk in a suit, he had the musculature of an athlete.
Before she had decided to move, she’d closed the space between them and was trailing her fingers over his abs. He sucked in a sharp breath when her hand moved lower, dipping just below the waistband of his dress pants.
“Undo my belt.” His words were quiet over the roar of the water, but there was no mistaking the steel behind them. They were in this now—he was taking over, making the decisions so that she didn’t have to. For a single breath, panic flared, and as if he sensed it, he took her hands and placed them on his belt buckle himself, helping her past the barrier of her doubt.
With shaking hands, she undid the buckle, then the button that fastened his pants. Her fingers grazed the head of his cock, which swelled beneath the touch.
“Undo the zipper.”
She did, savoring his groan when her fingers danced down his length. Sliding her hand into his pants, she rubbed the heel of her palm over his erection until his hips thrust forward into his touch.
“Undress me the rest of the way.”
Her gaze flew to his face—did he mean that? Wasn’t that going to be awkward? But it was clear that he wasn’t joking, and she felt anything but inept when she pulled his pants and his boxer briefs down with one tug. She thought he would step out of them, would kick them away, but he remained still, so she knelt before him, assisting him out of the pooled garments and then his socks, one at a time.
She started to rise but stopped when he shook his head. Her mouth watered, actually watered, when he wrapped his hand around the base of his cock, jerking himself up and down, up and down.
“I told you I was going to find something else for your saucy mouth to do.” His smile was dark as he circled his thumb over the swollen head of his penis. Meg exhaled harshly as she watched a bead of pearly liquid disappear beneath his touch.
Rising to her knees, she reached out for him with her hands, but he again shook his head.
“No hands.” At his command, she fisted them at her sides. “Open up, kitten.”
She trembled from head to toe but did as he told her. When she parted her lips, he rocked forward, pressing the dark head of his erection to her mouth. She tasted salt, opened wider, and then he was on her tongue, heavy with arousal.
She waited for instructions, but none came. She got it—he wanted her to do what she wanted, so she sucked tentatively, experimentally.
He hissed out a breath.
She ran her tongue along the underside.
He groaned quietly.
She flicked that tongue over his swollen head, and he fisted his fingers in her hair. He began to thrust shallowly as she worked him, and her hands strayed up so that she could brace herself on his thighs. She knew he was close when his movements, which he’d kept controlled, sped up, and the muscles of truly impressive thighs clenched beneath her hands. Yet she was the one to cry out with disappointment when he abruptly pulled out of the wet cavern of her mouth.
“Good girl.” His breath was ragged. Her gaze was transfixed by his swollen length as he helped her to her feet—his cock was rigid, long and thick and shiny from her mouth.
She’d done that. That was how much he wanted her.
As if to let her know he appreciated her work, he pressed his mouth to hers. He kissed her hard, and knowing that he didn’t care where her mouth had just been was freaking hot. Sliding his arms around her, he unzipped her dress—a little slip of electric-blue silk she’d gotten in a Tory Burch trunk sale—slipping the spaghetti straps down her shoulders.
She caught the dress at her breasts before it fell off. He’d seen it all yesterday, but tonight, the stakes had been upped. Even though he stood before her, naked and as confident as if he was wearing one of his custom suits, she was the one who felt exposed.
“Take off your dress.” He spoke against her lips, his fingers toying with the loosened straps at her shoulders.
Still, she hesitated. Partly because she was again nervous...and partly because she wanted to see what would happen if she disobeyed.
“Take off your dress,” he repeated, his words now edged with steel. Still, she remained frozen, dress clutched to her chest.
She wasn’t prepared for him to strike. She cried out as he rounded her, catching both of her wrists behind her back. She tugged, but with him holding her like that, she could do nothing when he used his free hand to yank down her dress, where it caught around her hips.
“If you don’t do what I tell you, then I do it for you,” he informed her. Cupping her left breast in his palm, he found her nipple and tugged. She gasped at the bolt of pleasure/pain.
“You’re not allowed to hide your body from me.” Dipping his head, he sank his teeth lightly into the curve of her shoulder. She pressed back against his solid frame, knowing he would hold her up when she trembled. “I need to make sure you remember that. On your knees.”
Oh God. She shouldn’t love this, should she? She shouldn’t feel like her entire core had turned to molten liquid, shouldn’t feel as though she stood on the edge of a cliff and was ready to jump?
This time, she listened. She dropped to her knees, facing the bathtub. John still stood behind her, but she felt it when he followed her down.
Moaning shakily when he touched her ankles, he slid her feet out of the wedge heels she was wearing, then traced a path up the sole of each foot. She was wearing a baby blue lace thong, and her eyes went wide when he slid his fingers under the strap that divided the cheeks of her behind and tugged. It pulled the remaining fabric into the slick heat between her lower lips, and when he experimentally pulled the fabric up and down, she gasped at the delicious friction on her clit.
“Do you remember the day we met?” He continued to toy with the lace, and she felt her pulse, right between her legs. She arched her hips, empty and aching.
Though she hadn’t replied, he continued, “You weren’t dressed in any of your designer dresses. Your face wasn’t contoured. I could count every freckle on that adorable little nose of yours. You were with your sisters, who are all attractive women. But I fucking wanted you.”
This time he yanked on her thong, and she heard the fabric rip. Breath coming in pants, she arched her back, begging for more.
“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” With the torn fabric of her underwear in his hand, he leaned forward and traced it over her lips. She could smell her own arousal, and it forced her excitement up another level. “Your body is the sexiest thing I could ever conjure up, even in my filthiest dreams. Because it’s yours.”
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