Liar, Liar, Tabloid Writer

by Suzie Quint

She dropped her hands. “Yeah. Uhm.” What possible excuse could she use? “I, uh, forgot to floss.” She buried her face in her hands again. How lame was that? She didn’t even carry floss when she traveled.

  Did she hear him chuckling?

  As much as she might like to stay in there forever, the bathtub was not conducive to sleep. She splashed cold water on her face then patted it dry. Okay. So he knew she’d lied. She was still going to walk out there and pretend she’d rushed to the bathroom because of a flossing emergency. If he were any kind of gentleman—what were the odds of that?—he’d let her get away with it.

  She walked out just as he picked up her book. A small, distressed noise issued from her throat.

  He turned and looked up at her.

  “Romance, huh? Didn’t think you were the type.”

  She tried to snatch the book out of his hand but he stepped back, flipping it over to read the back. Determined not to demean herself by getting into a tug-of-war, she let him have it, but her face burned with embarrassment as she tucked one leg under her to sit on the bed.

  He flipped through a couple of pages then stopped and read.

  “Holy fucking shit!” He looked at the cover again then up at her. “This is smut.” He sounded impressed.

  She unfolded her legs, stood, and grabbed it out of his hand. “No, you’re thinking of the letters to Penthouse.”

  “Yeah, that’s smut,” he agreed. “But so is this.”

  “It is not.”

  He snagged it out of her hand, found what he was looking for, and read the passage aloud. “‘She landed on the bed beneath him. Whatever consideration he’d shown her in the past was gone. His touch was firm and demanding, nearly brutal, as he hastily explored her body, removing her clothes as he went.

  “‘She couldn’t keep up. When she was down to her panties, he rose to his knees to pull his T-shirt off. His jeans followed.

  “‘He grabbed her panties and pulled them down, barely giving her the chance to lift her hips from the bed, then he fell on her, forcing his way inside her, demanding that her body accept his full length whether she was prepared or not.’”

  Alec stopped to clear his throat but then read on. “‘His ferocity took her by surprise. As did her response to it. When he drove into her, like a battering ram against castle gates, her hips rose in response, meeting his violence with violence of her own. Her hands cupped his lean buttocks, her nails digging crescents into the tender flesh, urging him deeper, encouraging his savagery.

  “‘Their coupling was too turbulent to last. The need for satisfaction escalated with each vicious thrust until a shockwave of shattering intensity took her.’”

  He looked at her over the top of the book. “Sorry. Any time there’s vicious thrusting and she’s digging her nails into his ass hard enough to leave crescents in his tender flesh, it’s smut.”

  If her face got any hotter, she was going to burst into flames. “It’s not smut. You won’t find any cunts, pussies, or . . .” her brow furrowed, “well, there might be a cock, but just one or two.”

  He started laughing. “Honey, what do you think he’s thrusting with? And where do you think he’s poking her?”

  She tightened her lips. “I know what they’re doing.”

  “Oh, but as long as there’s some euphemistic name for the body parts, it’s not smut. Is that it?”

  “Well, no, of course not.”

  “Really? So if that same scene was written with graphic language— For instance, if I wrote . . .” He held the book up out of her reach and silently read the last bit again, then let his arm fall to his side and looked into her eyes. “She dug her nails into my ass hard enough to draw blood. I was giving her every inch I had, but the greedy little bitch wanted more. So I thrust harder, pushing my cock deeper into her pussy until she threw her head back and cried out―”

  He drew a breath, adding a dramatic pause.

  “And her sweet―” All teeth and tongue, the word came out nearly a whisper that sent a shiver through her.

  “Warm―” His voice dropped, drawing out the em, giving the word heat and a vibration she felt travel down her spine.

  “Wet―” He drew it out then bit it off.

  “Pussy”—his lips puckered around the word, and he said it as though he could taste it on his tongue—“tightened around my cock.” His voice was low. He sounded sinful, like rich, dark chocolate. “I let go, blind with pleasure. The pulses of her climax milked me until I had no more to give.”

  She swallowed. Hard. She was vibrating again, and the ache between her legs urged her to jump his bones.

  “That’s not smut?” he asked, his voice baritone deep.

  “Yeah,” she said, appalled at how high pitched her voice sounded following his. She cleared her throat and tried again. “That’s smut.”

  “So why is that smut and what you’re reading isn’t? It’s the same scene.” When he looked into her eyes, she shivered with how intimate it felt. “Or is it because it’s from a guy’s point of view?”

  “Uhm. Well . . .”

  “Or maybe it’s because it got you hot?”

  “It did not! I don’t get turned on by smut.” He wasn’t convinced. She could see it in his eyes—those dark, bedroom eyes. He was probably reading cues she couldn’t control.

  His gaze dropped, releasing her finally. She nearly cried out in relief. Then she realized he was staring at her chest. She looked down and saw her nipples, hard as ice chips, showing through the satiny nightgown.

  She crossed her arms over chest. No! she told her unruly libido. He’s a tabloid whore. I don’t want him touching me.

  Her libido wasn’t fooled.

  She started to look up, intending to meet his gaze, but her eyes caught the bulge in his jeans and got stuck there. Clearly, smut did turn him on.

  He tossed the book onto her nightstand and took a step toward her.

  She retreated.

  His eyes lit with amusement, and a lopsided smile spread his lips.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.” He took another step. “Yet.”

  She retreated again. “What do you think you’re going to do?”

  “Something I’ve wanted to do since I first laid eyes on you.” He took another step.

  She backed into the dresser. Before she could sidle away, he closed the distance between them. She leaned back as far as she could.

  “You’re so skittish.” Laughter tinged his voice.

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “Sh.” He laid his index finger against her lips.

  She looked back and forth between his eyes, hoping for some clue about how far he planned to take this. Please, please, let him be jerking my chain, she thought, only to follow it with, please, please, let him kiss me.

  He trapped her face between his hands and lowered his lips to hers.

  His kiss was soft, but there was nothing tentative about it. The kiss was a promise. The blade of his tongue swept across the seam of her lips.

  She had just enough tattered control left not to throw her arms around his neck, but not enough to keep them at her sides, so she ended up cupping his elbows. Was it panic that made her heart race or something else? She didn’t want it to be something else, but she was afraid it was because fear didn’t usually make her feel like melting, and it never, ever made her want to press up against a man and grind her pelvis against his. This, the angel on her shoulder whispered, is what happens when you fantasize indiscriminately.

  He tugged on her lower lip, sucking it into his mouth. Before she could stop herself, she made a small, hungry noise.

  His eyes opened, gleaming with heat and laughter. He released her lip and took possession of her mouth.

  Her fantasies about him had all been X-rated with very little focus on his mouth—or at least about his mouth on hers. That was clearly a major oversight. The man kissed as though he’d invented the activity. Thoroughly. Without rushing. Time stopped and all that exis
ted was his lips against hers, touching, tasting, enjoying.

  His hands dropped to her hips, and his tongue slipped into her mouth before she even realized she’d opened her lips.

  Fourth of July sparklers were going off at random points all over her body.

  This. This was Olympic-class, free-style kissing.

  And she had to make him stop before she lost all control.

  She put her hands against his chest, intending to push him back, but she couldn’t resist flexing her finger over his firm pectorals. He shifted his stance, his hands grasping her hips more firmly.

  She hadn’t meant to encourage him, but she felt him shift gears, preparing to go for the gold. Her heart thumped once, twice, almost painfully hard. She flattened her hands against his chest and shoved. He fell back a couple of steps.

  Her rejection would have looked more sincere if her mouth hadn’t tried to follow his as it broke free.

  He looked as stunned as she felt.

  They eyed each other in silence. She could feel the gravitational pull. Any moment, they’d come back together. It would be like disappearing into a black hole. There would be no escaping.

  “Who taught you how to kiss like that?” She hadn’t meant to ask that out loud.

  “Betty Sue Mullins. I was fourteen. She was seventeen.” Alec’s smile reeked of self-satisfaction and his eyes gleamed. “She said I was a natural.”

  “Good grief. Fourteen?”

  “Yup.”

  “And she was seventeen?”

  He nodded.

  “What was she? Your babysitter?”

  “Hey.” His too-pleased-with-himself smirk morphed into a scowl. “Fourteen-year-olds don’t need babysitters.”

  “I’m afraid to ask how old you were when you lost your virginity,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Has anyone ever told you that you overshare?”

  “I’ve never had any complaints.”

  “Well, this will be a first for you then. Keep your lips—and everything else—to yourself.”

  “Fine. But you weren’t exactly beating me off with a stick.”

  “Remind me to pick up a Louisville slugger tomorrow.”

  Her comment hung in the air for a moment before he burst into laughter. “You’re not nearly the hard ass you pretend to be, you know.”

  She decided he didn’t know anything, and that her best response was to ignore him and sleep on the couch.

  Chapter 16

  Cleo picked up the linens to make up a bed on the couch.

  “What are you doing?” Alec asked.

  “I’m going to sleep on the couch.”

  “Uhm . . .”

  He so seldom sounded unsure of himself that she stopped and looked at him. His grimace gave her a sense of impending doom. “What?”

  “The couch is wet,” he offered apologetically.

  “What?”

  “I spilled a glass of water while I was watching the news.”

  Was that all? “I’m not the Wicked Witch of the West. A little water won’t hurt me.”

  He winced. “It was more than a little.”

  “How much more?”

  “A lot. A full glass.”

  Giving him that big glass had seemed so funny at the time. She wasn’t laughing now.

  It didn’t look so bad at first. The cushion had a large, dark spot. Damp to the touch, but she could probably tolerate it. Then she pressed her palm against it and water welled up. Son of a bitch.

  “I tried to mop it up,” Alec said from the bedroom doorway, “but by the time I found towels in the kitchen, the cushion had absorbed most of it.”

  It would probably take putting it outside in the Las Vegas heat to get all the moisture to evaporate. That didn’t solve her problem tonight. She sighed. Maybe the pillow barricade would be enough.

  Alec retreated back into the bedroom as she returned.

  She stepped around him and slid into bed, making sure her pillow barricade was firmly in place. “Your side.” She pointed. “Stay on it.” Then she flipped off her bedside lamp, throwing the room into darkness, then rolled so she faced away from him, and waited for whatever came next.

  The bedside lamp on his side came on a second before the pillow against her back disappeared. Before she could protest, the rest disappeared as well.

  She sat up. “Put those back.”

  “Are you kidding? They take up half the bed.”

  “They’re a barrier.”

  “Like the Great Wall of China?”

  “Yes. They’re to keep the rampaging horde on his side of the bed.”

  “Hey, I’m not the one who invaded your space last night.”

  “Yes, well . . .” She closed her eyes in embarrassment. “Okay, they’re to keep us both where we belong.”

  “I don’t have a problem with you being a bed hog,” he said, a smile in his voice.

  “Well, I do.”

  “What? You didn’t like how you woke up this morning? I thought I did a pretty good job, if I do say so myself.” He tsked. “And here I thought I did my good deed for the day.”

  Cleo jerked the rest of the way around. “Good deed!” She couldn’t even find the words to express her outrage. “You arrogant―” His grin forced her to bite off her words.

  “Chica, you are so easy,” he said as he shut off the light on his side.

  He’d baited her, and she’d walked right into it. Before she could think of a smart response, the zzzit of his jeans unzipping shut her up. The sound seemed to echo through the darkened room. Good grief. Did he have his jeans miked?

  If she hadn’t seen evidence to the contrary, a microphone would explain the bulge in his pants. She suppressed a nervous giggle. Then the mattress compressed as he slid into bed, and the giggles evaporated as her skin went on high alert for a touch.

  “You enjoy jerking my chain, don’t you?” she said when he seemed to have settled in.

  “I enjoy jerking a lot of things.”

  She looked toward the ceiling, wondering in what previous life she’d done something horrendous enough to deserve this punishment.

  “You know,” he said, “we are in Vegas.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “I’m just saying . . . what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

  “That—that Vegas thing only applies if you’re from somewhere else.” Ack. Why didn’t she sound like she meant that?

  “You don’t live here now.”

  “Still counts.”

  She felt him roll then his bedside lamp came on.

  He leaned over her, blocking her view of the ceiling. The heat in his gaze nearly fried her circuits. “Why?”

  He wasn’t really propositioning her, was he? But of course he was. That gleam in his eyes meant only one thing, and it made her insides tremble like Jell-O in an earthquake. Her good angel was yelling, no, no, no. Bad idea. Very, very bad. Too bad the devil was whispering hmmmm in her other ear.

  “Because . . . because . . .” Because why? If he’d been touching her, it would have scrambled her brains too much to formulate a reason, but fortunately—or not—he was playing at least a little fair. “Because the only reason things stay in Vegas for you is because you don’t know anyone here who’ll carry stories home. This is my hometown.”

  He scanned the room. “I don’t see anyone here who’ll tell.” He laid back, clasping his hands behind his head, and smirked. “And I won’t tell. I promise.”

  “Yeah, right. So when we get back and Jackson gives you the old nudge-nudge wink-wink and asks how we got along in Vegas, you won’t be bragging about how you bagged me.” Skepticism dripped from her voice.

  His eyes turned flinty. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

  She caught her breath. It was crazy, but she almost believed him.

  He shifted, propping himself on his elbow, and looked her straight in the eye. His gaze lost all playfulness. “You are not a conquest. I will not brag about being
with you. This is between us. You and me. It’s no one else’s business.”

  “You won’t tell Jackson? Or any of the others” She felt silly for even asking after his declaration. And why did it matter?

  Unless she was actually considering doing this.

  Which she wasn’t.

  Maybe.

  “I will tell no one,” he said solemnly.

  The challenge in his eyes made her shiver. She sucked her lower lip into her mouth, biting down to keep from saying, In that case, take me, big boy. A pulse between her legs reminded her what his touch felt like on her body. Could he repeat what he’d done that morning?

  He rolled onto his back again, hands tucked behind his head. She propped herself up to try to read his expression, but he just looked back, waiting for her decision.

  She broke from his gaze, so those damned bedroom eyes of his couldn’t sway her. It seemed like a prudent move until she found herself looking at the sheet over his groin. She bit down harder on her lip to keep from moaning.

  It would be such a fun toy.

  Go for it, the devil said in her mother’s voice. Maybe he’ll be your romantic hero.

  Dreams of romantic heroes were for teenagers, but not everything had to be about forever, she thought as her body tingled with remembered pleasure.

  “Look,” she said, trying to sound reasonable. “I know this is an awkward situation for us—well, for me—and that most guys would feel obliged to at least try to score, but if you could maybe try not to be one of those guys? What you did this morning, that was nice and all but―”

  While she babbled, he freed one arm from under his head and put his fingers against her lips. “Shh. You talk too much.” Their eyes held each other, silent, motionless, then his hand slid around to the back of her neck and pulled her down.

  His mouth touched hers, his tongue tracing the line of her lips, encouraging her to open to him, to invite him in. She surrendered, letting her tongue tangle with his. A noise came from deep in his throat. The reverberation raced down her spine to settle between her legs. When she retreated, he followed, dipping into her mouth, teasing.

  As he pressed up, she gave way, too focused on his mouth to question where they were going. In nearly slow motion, with their lips never parting, they shifted until she was on her back with one of his legs slung over hers.