"How famous are we talking?" His face lit up. "I am Seattle's Hottest Bachelor, after all," he said in a self-deprecating tone. "And on many lists of America's richest people. Highly sought after by women and hangers-on. Those who want my business and my secrets to success. That constitutes slightly famous in some people's book."
I laughed at the comical, not quite modest way he said it. "As famous as you like. Ridiculously famous."
He scrunched one side of his mouth in distaste. "Truthfully? There are days when I'd like complete anonymity. To be able to go out without worrying I'll be recognized or hit on for my money." He sighed. "And there are other days when I thrive on the attention and want more, more, more."
"So it's a conundrum for you?" I said. "You're saying you're fickle?"
"I guess I am. You?" He took a swig of beer.
I matched him, taking a drink of mine. "I'd like to be a famous matchmaker. I'd like to be famous in my field. Famous for making people happy and finding them true love. Other kinds of fame?" I shrugged. "Eh."
He pursed his lips and made a show of thinking my response over. "Good answer. Much nobler than mine."
I did like a man who was humble and knew how to flatter me.
"Next?" he said.
"When was the last time you cried in front of someone?" I grimaced. What kind of a question was that to ask a man? I thought that every time I went through the list of questions. How honestly would any man answer? How accurately would a man show his vulnerability? It was a delicate balance, wasn't it? What woman wanted a crybaby for a hero? Yet true vulnerability was sexy. In the right amount.
"Cried? Real men don't cry." He set his beer down and leaned toward me.
His answer was about what I expected. This would take some coaxing.
"Fine. I'll go first." I rolled my eyes. "This one is easy. I almost just cried in front of you a minute ago."
To my surprise, he leaned over, took my hand, and looked at me seriously. "That's okay. You can cry in front of me anytime you need or want to." His expression was as warm and sympathetic as that of any girlfriend I'd ever had.
I silently cursed this game. The bond was forming. Fight it as I might, I was growing closer to him with each question.
"Thank you." My throat was tight. "That's sweet of you."
We were silent a minute before he dropped my hand and leaned back.
"I can't remember the last time I cried." He frowned and looked thoughtful. As if he was putting effort into remembering. "I cried when Sanne refused me," he said, slowly, as he grinned lopsidedly. "Not in front of her, of course." He shook his head. "That wouldn't have been manly and macho. But in front of the guys, yeah. Sobbed like a baby. Still wearing the costume.
"The guys very helpfully plied me with their homemade bathtub beer to drown my sorrows." That teasing look returned to his eyes. "They were very proud of that beer. Of course, alcohol is a depressant, so…that was helpful.
"Had a hell of a hangover the next day and didn't remember much after the first few beers. Austin and Cam enlightened me, saying I was inconsolable and blubbered for hours. What are friends for if not to remind you of your sorrows, right?"
"You're joking," I said, trying not to laugh. "You left the crying and the homebrew out of the story the first time. You're just adding that now for dramatic effect."
He shook his head. "I'm not." He laughed. "It's not something I brag about." He paused a beat. "I cried that year when my dog died, too. Cried harder over my pup that I did over the girl, in fact. Like a baby. I still miss that mutt. Man's best friend." He sighed. "Now that I think about it, I went through a rough patch in college. That was an epic period—my crying years."
I studied him, trying not to smile at his self-deprecating sense of humor. "You haven't cried since?"
He shook his head, glanced upward, and shook his head. "No. Not that I remember."
"Really? That's not good. You shouldn't bottle up your emotions. It's okay. It's healthy to let them out and let yourself be vulnerable," I said.
He raised an eyebrow. "Pessimistic, are you?"
I frowned, not catching his meaning.
"What if my life's been happy? What if I have nothing to cry about?" He held my gaze. His eyes sparkled, but there was an edge to his tone.
I nodded, realizing what he was saying. "You mean you're rich. You live a charmed life. What would a man in your position have to cry about? All that money should make you happy."
He didn't reply, but I knew I'd hit it on the head.
"Crying can be therapeutic. But take it from me, a major crying jag can lead to a horrible headache after. Like a hangover."
He smiled. "I'll keep that in mind. It appears, then, that I was suffering a double whammy over Sanne."
We smiled at each other in silence for a second too long. I could feel the connection building and was determined to break it.
"Next!" I said, falsely cheery, and read the next question from my phone. "If you lived to be one hundred and had the choice of either having the mind or body you had in your twenties, which would you choose?"
"My mind," he said without hesitation. "The question always assumes you can't have both and that at that advanced age, both would ordinarily be shot."
"You were quick to answer," I said. "Why your mind? If it was gone, but your body was great, you wouldn't even know it. You'd just feel good. No aches. No pains. You'd still be hot. The women still all over you."
I expected him to laugh, but he remained thoughtful.
"What's beauty if I couldn't appreciate it? If my mind was gone and I didn't recognize my friends and family, what fun would that be?"
I liked his answer.
He continued, "If I couldn't be left alone because I might wander off a cliff or leave the stove on, how would I be trusted to go snowboarding? Or biking? Or hiking? And anyone could take advantage of me. No, I'd like to be sharp and in control until the end."
I played devil's advocate. "But what about being trapped in a body that couldn't do anything with a mind that was young and energetic and wanted to dance and run and so many things your body didn't have the energy for or ability to do? What about living in constant pain or being bedridden?"
"That would stink. But I can go anywhere in my mind. I can imagine anything. If I didn't have a sound mind, I'd lose my sense of humor. What's life without a sense of humor? Why would I ever voluntarily make the choice to give that up?"
"Good point." I liked his answer too much. Intelligence and a sense of humor were my two must-haves in a man. "It wouldn't be easy, but I'd choose the same."
"One compatibility point for us." He paused and read the next question upside down as I held the phone. "What subject is too serious to joke about?"
I glanced up at him. "Love." That was a no-brainer. "You can't ever joke about not loving someone anymore, falling out of love with them. Jokes often have underlying truth at their root. It's not fair to make someone else insecure. If you've fallen out of love, you need to be honest about that. And if you're using the joke as a power trip…" My frown deepened.
"Conversely, you should never joke that you love someone when you don't. Especially not if you know, or suspect, they love you or are falling in love with you. That's just leading them on. Toying with someone's emotions is despicable. Love is serious business." I held his gaze.
His expression remained masked. "Why am I not surprised?"
"And you?"
"Wall Street crashing." He flashed me an amused look.
"Damn you!" I said. "You can't joke about what you can't joke about."
"Exactly." He took the final swig of his beer. "I'm empty."
"Help yourself," I said. "I have plenty, obviously."
He nodded toward mine. "You've barely touched yours. Am I drinking alone now? I hear that's dangerous."
I took a long pull on mine. "Danger averted. Satisfied?"
"Not yet. Not by a long shot," he said in a tone just this side of lecherous. He grinned, wen
t to the fridge, and returned with two beers. "For when you catch up." He set the beer on the end table.
Lazer twisted the lid off his beer, took my phone from me, and scrolled to the next question on the list. "What roles do love and affection play in your life?"
I made a funny face at him and laughed. "Ha! Now you got the ridiculous question. Isn't it obvious? Love is everything to me. It's my profession. Love is the reason I do what I do.
"Everyone should love and be loved is my motto. Everyone should feel the elation, learn from the journey, and have a mate to go through life with. Affection comes along for the ride. I like affectionate people. I love affectionate men." I slid my other knee beneath me, facing him in a kneeling position, polished off the rest of my beer, and set the bottle on the floor next to the sofa.
I leaned over him, bracing myself against the arm of the sofa behind him, meaning to intimidate him and get the truth from him. This was one question I expected him to hedge on. "You?"
He paused, looking up at me. "Affection I like, obviously. I'm a very affectionate guy. I've even been known to be exceptionally affectionate on occasion."
"This. What I'm doing right now, is this affection, Lazer? Or aggression? Or lust?" I had to know his definition.
"It could be anything you make it," he said in a gravelly voice.
"Affection obviously means different things to us. Affection implies fondness rather than physicality to me." Having made my point, I prepared to slide off him.
He grabbed my hips and held me in place. "You started this."
I held his gaze, unwilling to back down. "What about love?" I said, challenging him to go deeper than simply thinking about sex.
"I love my family. I love my friends in a platonic way." His expression was completely serious. "Real love takes sacrifice. And lots of it. More commitment and work than I've been willing to make. Call me selfish if you want. But I haven't found anyone worth the sacrifice."
"Yet," I said, knowing I should back off. Knowing I was the one taking things too far. Wanting him to feel my power. Wanting him to see how this game could be abused. Wanting him to realize what a fool he was being.
Chapter 8
Ashley
Lazer didn't flinch. Not even when I positioned my legs on either side of his hips and settled myself comfortably against his bulging crotch. He was turned on. As excited as I was. For my part, I couldn't believe I was being this bold and playing aggressor to make a point.
His eyes were dark and round. My breath was shallow. My pulse rapid.
"Tell me what you like about me," he said, reciting the next question without having to look at it. "Be completely honest." He was goading me now. Turning my own rules back on me. "Tell me something you wouldn't normally tell a guy you've known only as long as we've known each other."
I leaned close and put my lips inches from his. If he wanted to play the game this way, fine with me. I would be honest. Completely honest. "I like the way you look. I think you're hot."
He grinned sexily. "That's no secret. I think we established that the first time we met. Too superficial. Go deeper. What else?" His voice grew deep and hoarse.
All the signs of arousal were there. How far would I push him? How far would I push myself?
"I like your sense of humor."
"I knew that, too. You laugh at my jokes."
"You're hard to please." I rubbed against him.
"Very hard." He thrust up against me. "Tell me something deep and intimate."
I paused.
"Your game, not mine," he said.
I put my lips just inches from his again. "You're thoughtful. You don't like to admit it. But you have a soft, sentimental side. A romantic side. I like romantics." I inched my lips even closer to his and rocked against him. "We think alike, you and me. We have a passion for relationships and business. That's a huge turn-on.
"I haven't met a man who's as knowledgeable about dating and relationships as I am. Like you are. Or thrilled me the way you do. I don't believe I've ever met a man who can match me move for relationship move in…maybe forever. And yet who can be so cynical about love. So resistant to the idea of love and commitment. And yet can manipulate the rules of the game of seduction to his favor as smoothly as you do. I've never met a man like you." What was I admitting?
My breath was shallow as he rocked into me, thrusting his hips, simulating sex. Sometimes the simplest things can be erotic. Like the feel of him through two layers of denim—his and mine.
He slid one hand behind my head and pulled my head down and my lips against his. Not tenderly. Not affectionately. But possessively. Decisively. As if releasing pent-up frustration. Open-mouthed. Tongue thrusting. Tasting refreshingly like beer.
If I'd had any thought of acting sensibly and resisting him, it was lost now. I wanted that caveman take-me kiss and everything that went with it. Like a tiny taste of chocolate that leads to a binge, this was a gateway kiss into something much bigger. Into temptation too great for a mere mortal like me to resist.
Since I'd met him I'd been craving a kiss like this. Senselessly dreaming of his kiss on my lips, resisting him for too long. There was only so much seduction I could take. Only so long I could restrain the passion that coursed through me. The beer was messing with my head, sweeping away my better sense. When Lazer unbuttoned my jeans and slid the zipper down, I encouraged him and kissed him harder.
I wanted to bruise him as much as he'd bruised me. I wanted him to feel what I felt. Not just desire. Not merely lust. But something deeper that I was struggling to put a name to. Something I was resisting putting a name to.
I reached for his zipper as my tongue danced with his. As I gently bit his lip, I slid his dick out.
He shoved my jeans and panties down and pulled a condom from his pocket.
I was slick and ready for him. I took the condom from him and slid it on him, stroking him, pushing him to the edge.
Time to be completely honest and let him know how it felt. I pulled back from our kiss and looked him in the eye, ready to hit him with the truth. "You know what I like best about you? Your hard dick and the way you use it to please me."
He grinned, slowly. "You know what I like about you?"
I raised one eyebrow.
"You're such a damn liar." He thrust up and slid into me, taking my breath away.
He hands at my hips held me firm as he thrust up into me. I rode him, hard, matching his rhythm.
We weren't even undressed. His shirt was still buttoned. My bra was still on. He hadn't even touched my breasts, but the fire burning between us was unmistakable. We fucked liked two teenagers. Stared at each other with wonder and determination. Eyes wide open, playing a game of emotional chicken.
Besides desire, I wasn't sure what I was seeing in his eyes. It certainly wasn't his soul. And I wasn't sure it was tenderness. Maybe it was only challenge. Maybe it was triumph.
I realized too late that I'd just broken my resolve. Broken my vow not to sleep with him. Let him win. Yes, he'd won. He'd seduced me, even if the illusion was otherwise.
I'd thrown away any chance of winning him. Of catching him. Of marrying him. Securing him, as Jane Austen might have written.
But the fire between us only burned brighter and hotter. His hands scorched where they clutched my hips. The heat between my legs glowed white-hot even as the air conditioning kicked on and whispered around us. Whispered anything but good sense.
Nothing, no amount of refrigerated air, cooled our ardor. Nothing slaked my thirst for him. Neither of us would give in. Neither of us would quit.
Damn you, just come, I wanted to scream at him as I rode him harder. What was I trying to prove? That this wasn't affection?
A moan slipped from my lips. My hair fell down around my moist face and stuck to my lips. "Harder." I gasped. "Harder."
He brushed the hair from my lips and kissed me quickly.
My voice caught. I was holding on, waiting for him to come first. Waiting for him
to give in.
"Let go," he said, thrusting harder, holding my gaze. Sounding so damn trustworthy.
"You let go." Why was my voice so breathy? I hardly even sounded like me. I braced my hands against his chest and rode him harder. How long could I keep this pace up?
He reached up and cupped my cheek with one hand. "Let go. I'll come with you." His voice broke with tenderness.
Did I trust him? Whether I did or didn't, I couldn't hold off the inevitable. I did the only thing I could. I let go. Every part of my body clenched. I held his gaze and gasped in unison with him and let the waves roll. And roll, and roll over me. The release was the most exquisite thing…
When the most intense heat of the moment was over, I swallowed hard.
"Fuck," he said, as if he was amazed.
"If that's a command, I need a few minutes to recover first," I said with a grin. "My legs are too shaky to do it again immediately."
He stared up at me, grinned back, and lifted the hair off my neck. "You know what I like about you?"
I leaned over him. "I know how to ride you and my rhythm is never off?"
He shook his head. "Everything." He practically breathed the word, sounding stunned and surprised as the words slipped from his lips. But completely serious and firm in his conviction.
"Too vague," I said, lightly.
"Damn, Ashley." He paused and pulled me against his chest.
I let myself collapse against him.
"I've never felt anything that intense before," he said into my hair as he stroked my head. "I've never felt like this before. I…"
My heart raced. My mouth went dry. The moment hung, crystalized in the air, waiting for the words and emotion that would free it. And me.
There was an awkward moment where he grappled with himself and the silence seemed unbearable. The truth of the situation and my own feelings hit me.
"I love you," I said to him in a rush of emotion and realization. The words just tumbled out.
Honesty is hardly ever convenient. Or well timed. Sometimes it's not even freeing.
He froze.
Pair Us: A Jet City Billionaire Romance (The Billionaire Matchmaker Series Book 3) Page 9