The Fortunate Ones

by R.S. Grey

  He glances behind him to see where I’m pointing. “Oh, of course. I can do that. Would you like to send them a message along with the drinks?”

  “How about, Enjoy it while it lasts.”

  By the time I walk out of the restaurant, I have regrets about skipping out on an appetizer in favor of wine. I’m feeling slightly lightheaded, and while it’s probably in my best interest to head up to the hotel room and order food, the thought is too depressing. I’ve been cooped up in there by myself all day.

  I want company. I want James, but he’s apparently not available.

  The hotel bar is as crowded as I assumed it would be, and every person in the room is wearing a blue lanyard and nametag from the conference. There’s no point in trying to find a table—they’re all taken—so I head straight for the bar and luck out when a couple stands and vacates their stools soon after I arrive. I steal one of them and wait for the bartender to find me. A few minutes later he heads over.

  “What’ll you have?”

  “Do you serve food here?”

  He leans forward and turns his ear in my direction. “Sorry, what was that?”

  “Do you serve food here!” I repeat, this time shouting.

  “Not right now,” he says, indicating to the crowd. “There’s a cafe around the corner though.”

  Just my luck.

  “What’s your most food-like drink?” I ask. “Anything with, I dunno, a chicken wing sticking out of it?”

  The impatient bartender gives me a blank stare.

  “She’ll have a whiskey ginger.”

  I turn in time to see a stranger take the barstool beside mine. He’s extremely good-looking, blond and tan, a California boy all grown up. He unbuttons his suit jacket and slides an easy smile in my direction. Clearly, he thinks he’s here to stay.

  I quirk a brow. “I will?”

  “Trust me.” He nods, turning back to the bartender. “Make it two.”

  “I don’t like ginger ale,” I point out.

  He chuckles. “See? We’re already learning things about each other. I don’t like ceviche.”

  I sigh and turn away, back to staring at the liquor bottles behind the bar. The stranger leans closer to me and I feel him dragging his gaze down my dress and then lower, across my bare legs. Apparently, he enjoys the view.

  “Are you here for the conference?”

  “No.”

  He seems to enjoy my one-word response because he leans even closer. “Then why are you in this hotel?”

  It’s obvious he’s not going to leave until I tell him to. I turn and assess him with a cool glance. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the lanyard around his neck proclaims him to be Martin Stone. He notices me eyeing it and his smile widens with pride.

  “You may have seen my photo in the lobby,” he continues.

  “Actually, no.”

  I heard the men on the elevator talking about him, but I don’t volunteer that information.

  “Are you waiting for someone?” he asks.

  “Not anymore,” I reply icily.

  The bartender slides our drinks across the bar, and Martin picks one up to hand to me. He takes the other and tilts it toward me for a toast. “To meeting new friends.”

  I clink my glass with his and take a hesitant sip, prepared to hate it. Instead, the sweet and smooth taste of the whiskey pairs well with the spicy notes of ginger.

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s actually not that bad.”

  He grins and turns toward me, brushing his suit-clad leg against mine. “You know, there are a hundred other hotels on the Vegas strip and they aren’t filled with tech nerds. Why are you sitting in this bar all by yourself if you aren’t waiting for someone?”

  He barely finishes his question before a hand unexpectedly lands on my bare shoulder. I catch a hint of a familiar spiced cologne and turn to find James standing behind me, looking devastatingly handsome in the dim light of the bar.

  “Thank you for keeping my date company, Martin.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I can only imagine what the scene looks like from James’ perspective: he strolled into the crowded bar and found me sipping drinks with another man. Martin’s still turned toward me, brushing his leg against mine. I could tell him to back off, but there’s no need—he won’t do anything now that James is here. As soon as he approached us, I noticed a lull in the conversations around us. Everyone is holding their breath, waiting to see if there’s going to be a standoff between James Ashwood and Martin Stone. Every tech blogger in the room has Twitter open and their thumbs at the ready.

  Martin sweeps his gaze from James down to me. He’s confused, clearly.

  “Your date? She just said she wasn’t waiting for anyone.”

  I want to make things perfectly clear. James might have flown me to Vegas, but the second he stood me up at dinner, I stopped being his date. “I’m here alone.”

  “Brooke—”

  “You heard her, James. She’s not your date.”

  James’ grip tightens on my shoulder and a shiver escapes down my spine. I don’t want him to read my emotions, so I turn back to the bar and take a long sip of my drink, hoping one of them will leave before the situation escalates to a point of no return.

  “Plenty of seating over there, James,” Martin suggests with a stern tone. He wants to be my knight in shining armor so badly, but unfortunately, he’s acting as a pawn in this game I’m playing with James. I should tell him that, but then James steps back and releases my shoulder. I glance up and meet his gaze in the bar’s mirrored backsplash. His features are etched in stone, that intimidating jaw is clenched, and while the fury in his eyes should warn me away, I arch a brow and meet it head on. Your move, buddy.

  Fire blazes between us, and I think he’s going to grab Martin by the scruff and yank him off the barstool beside me. He seems angry enough to do it, but then I watch as he slowly overcomes his baser emotions. The tension between his brows eases slightly, his jaw loosens, and I can’t be sure, but I think he’s trying to fight off a little smile. I narrow my eyes, trying to figure out his game. He tilts his head and waits patiently. He’s not going to make a scene, isn’t going to explode with jealousy. He’s James Ashwood, after all. This isn’t his first rodeo.

  We’re having a fight without words, and Martin is completely oblivious.

  “Listen, bud, you look pretty tired. Maybe go rest up for your big keynote?”

  James holds my gaze and completely ignores him. I want to squirm in my seat or fan my face, something to ease the tension between us, because I know he won’t do that for me. If I want this to end, I have to be the one to speak up.

  “Martin, I’m sorry for the confusion.”

  He rears back, clearly having expected me to side with him after all this.

  I reach for my purse. “Let me pay you for the drink.”

  That makes James laugh under his breath, which only further pisses Martin off. I’d feel really bad for causing so much drama and embarrassing Martin if he wasn’t so damn sure of himself. The man’s face is hanging on a banner in the lobby—he could use a healthy blow to his ego every now and then.

  He refuses the twenty I try to hand him, and when he vacates his seat, he brushes past James with a hard hit to the shoulder. I brace myself for James’ reaction, but instead of escalating the situation, he shakes his head and steps forward, claiming Martin’s barstool.

  The difference between Martin and James is night and day. When Martin sat beside me, I wasn’t hyperaware of every move he made. With James, I’m jumpy and nervous, anticipating some kind of consequence even though I did nothing wrong.

  We sit side by side for a few minutes without a word. I know he’s had a long day, and while I’m annoyed with him for standing me up, I don’t necessarily want to talk about it at the moment. Instead, I pass him my drink in silence and he takes a long drag, finishing the last of it.

  When the bartender returns, he orders himself a whi
skey neat then turns to me.

  I shake my head. “Nothing, thanks.”

  I can’t continue drinking without dinner. I’ll pass out, or worse, I’ll tell James how much I missed him today.

  “Have you eaten?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “We’ll order something when we go back up to the room.”

  My stomach dips.

  The room. Of course.

  It’s hard enough sitting beside James in a crowded bar, let alone following him back up to our suite. I keep my gaze down because it’s easier than meeting his eye, but even that isn’t safe territory. His strong thighs press against the fabric of his suit pants. His hand bridges the small space between us and grips my leg. Goose bumps bloom across my thigh as he brushes his thumb back and forth along the sensitive skin inside my knee.

  “Brooke?”

  “Hmm?”

  He leans closer when I don’t look up. “I like that dress,” he says with a whisper against the shell of my ear.

  I glance down at my lap and nibble on my bottom lip.

  His thumb continues to skim back and forth across my knee, lingering for a moment in the hollow before claiming the bare skin an inch higher up my leg. I like that he can’t keep his hands off me. I put thought into my dress, picking the exact silhouette that would make me feel most confident. My hair and makeup are weapons, temporarily forgotten after sitting alone at the restaurant for so long. Now, I remember why I needed them in the first place; I can’t keep up with James unarmed.

  My fingers ache to reach out and touch his raven-black suit. I want to feel his muscles tighten beneath the soft fabric. Instead, I fist my hands on my lap. James chuckles and turns to accept the drink from the bartender, taking his hands with him. My skin tingles from the ghost of his touch, but I use the moment to regain some ground.

  “How was the conference?” I ask, proud that my voice doesn’t shake.

  He stands and reaches into his wallet for his cash. He only arrived five minutes ago, but apparently he’s too anxious to sit at the bar for long. He downs some of his drink and flags down the bartender to pay his tab.

  “James?”

  He ignores me, tugging a few bills out of his wallet and sliding them across the bar. His hand grips my upper arm and when he turns to walk away, I swivel on my barstool, forced to follow after him or fall flat on my face. His hold on me isn’t painful, but there’s also not much room for negotiation. He leads us out of the bar and toward the hotel’s elevators.

  My cheeks flush with embarrassment as people turn and watch us.

  “What’s wrong? James?”

  My heels clap against the marble floor as we beeline through the lobby. The doors of the elevator are already open, waiting for us. We step inside and he presses the number for our floor. The doors whoosh closed, we start ascending, and then he turns to me. My pulse jumps.

  “I missed you today,” he says, his heated gaze lingering on my body.

  I step back, and he follows.

  He looks like he’s cornering his prey.

  “Apparently not enough to make it to dinner,” I point out icily.

  “I called the restaurant and told them I’d be late. Didn’t they tell you?”

  I cross my arms and glance away.

  “Brooke.” He steps closer and gently lifts my chin, forcing me to look back at him. “Fight with me tomorrow.”

  I narrow my eyes, angry with him for shelving this discussion so casually. To him, it doesn’t matter that I sat in that restaurant alone, looking like a fool for nearly two hours. He’s brushing off my anger, stepping closer and forcing his way past my defenses.

  “I think I’d like to talk about it now.”

  I catch the beginning of a smirk just before he leans in to kiss my cheek.

  “Are you sure there isn’t anything you’d rather be doing right now?”

  He uncrosses my arms and brings them up over his shoulders then steps closer, towering over me. My arms tighten around his neck, but still, I turn away, keeping my mouth from him. His breath hits my neck and he pulls me taut against his hard body, growing more impatient with every moment I try to resist.

  “Brooke,” he whispers huskily.

  My eyes flutter closed as he bends and presses a kiss to my cheek, my chin, then lower, tipping my head back so he can reach the smooth recess at the nape of my neck. I shiver and he groans, obviously aware of what his touch is doing to me.

  Torn between wanting to submit to my desire or hold my ground, I turn toward him, and his mouth crashes down on mine without warning. He kisses me mercilessly even as I struggle against him. My hands fight their way between us and I try to shove him off, but his ironclad embrace is too strong for me to break. I know I won’t be able to outmaneuver him, so I resist in a simpler fashion by holding completely still. He can force me against him, but I don’t have to respond, and I don’t have to kiss him back.

  My rebellion makes him even more annoyed. His grip bites into my hip and his mouth moves over mine relentlessly. All the while, I ignore the sparks of desire stemming from his touch. I tell myself I would be reacting this way if any man kissed me like this, not just James. His kiss turns punishing, and I respond by digging my nails into his suit, hoping to break skin.

  We’re ascending so quickly. I know any moment the elevator will ding and announce that we’ve arrived, but something changes in that short time. His touch turns from brutal to sensuous. His lips move over mine with tenderness. His hand drifts down my back in a slow caress, easing me closer until our bodies are flush. He’s rock hard and unyielding. I moan against him and fist my hands into his suit pockets.

  The elevator dings and the doors whip open.

  I break our kiss and inhale sharply, trying to fill my lungs like a madwoman. James wastes no time hauling me out of the elevator. It’s a few feet to the door. He swipes the key and we push inside, halfway through before our mouths collide. He opens his lips against mine and his tongue sweeps into my mouth. My purse is tossed across the room and his jacket follows. I tear at the buttons on his shirt and he reaches around to fumble with the zipper on my dress.

  Our passion is fueled by our impatience. The last button springs free and I drag my hands up his toned chest and past his shoulders, taking the fabric with me. It slides down his arms and onto the floor, leaving his toned upper body completely bare. I feel my slip dress starting to slide down my body, but I’m too preoccupied with him, with his powerful, tan shoulders and arms on full display to stop it. I watch the muscles flex and coil as he yanks the garment the remainder of the way off. My strapless bra is already slipping down, halfway concealing my chest. I think he’s going to tug it off like he did with my dress, but instead he hauls me up against him and walks us into the suite’s living room. I’m a feather in his arms, and then I’m falling through the air, caught suddenly by the couch. He stands over me, his large frame bathed in bright neon light from the Vegas strip. A swath of dark blue darts across his face, and when our eyes meet, it gives him an animalistic glow.

  I try to adjust myself to sit up straight on the couch, but before I can, James bends down and grips my thighs. With a hard tug, he drags me to the edge. I prop myself up on my elbows and watch as he steps closer.

  His eyes drag down my body. It’s a suggestive perusal, as intimate as if his fingertips were following the same trail. I usually don’t care what people think of me, but I’m desperate to know his thoughts as he bends down onto his knees and pushes my legs apart so he can fit between them. His eyes are hooded, his touch searing. He drags his fingertips across my thighs and my stomach quivers. Then he grips them and inches them just a little…bit…farther…apart until the backs of my thighs hit the couch. Apparently pleased with my position, he skims his fingers higher across my stomach, and then up and over my bra. There’s no rush as he follows the line of the material, dragging his finger pad over each cup. My toes curl. With slow precision, he works the material down, and then my chest is bared for him.


  I fight the urge to squirm, instead lying perfectly still as his hungry gaze moves over me.

  “Brooke,” he groans. Then, as if he just can’t help himself, he bends low and takes one of my breasts in his mouth. His tongue drags across my nipple and I cry out, arching my back to give him better access. He stays there just a moment, teasing me before he stands back to his full height.

  He unbuckles his belt with deft hands. I reach up to replace his fingers with mine and slide it out in one smooth tug. The metal belt buckle hits the ground with an audible clunk, highlighting how little sound there is in the hotel suite, nothing but our breaths coming hot and fast. The tension ratchets up another notch as we meet each other’s gaze. I can only imagine what he sees in my light eyes—everything, no doubt, every ounce of desire surging through me. I blink and cut off the connection, turning instead to the zipper of his suit pants. I tug it down and he pushes the material low before stepping out of them, exposing his long, muscular legs. He obviously spends hours in the gym lifting weights or running or doing some other form of torture that produces results like this. I’m very appreciative, and my sly smirk says so.

  James reaches down and strokes across the bottom of my breast, feeling the weight of it in his palm before rolling my nipple between his thumb and index finger. I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to keep my mask of indifference right where it belongs. I’ve never felt this…this frenzy before, this need to get under his skin. The thought scares me and I try to push it aside, but it’s like he knows how close I am to begging him for more and wants to stoke the flame.

  He bends low and brushes a seductive kiss across my lips before whispering, “You’re so beautiful.”

  His voice is hoarse and raw, so damn sexy that I reach up and grip the back of his neck, tugging him down against me. His hands hit my thighs and he bends low so he’s on his knees between my legs. It almost feels like he’s submitting to me, but I know better. I doubt this man has submitted to anyone in his entire life.