by Julie Leto
“Are you admirers of Mr. Arsenal?” the manager asked.
Mallory turned on her sweetest smile. The guy puffed up a half a foot above his somewhat diminutive stature. “Absolutely,” she said, tugging Ajay slightly closer. “He’s our favorite performer.”
Ajay suddenly wished he’d kept that iced tea. The inside of his mouth had dried and he would need replenishment if he was going to do what she was tempting him to—kiss the breath out of her the moment they were alone.
But no. He couldn’t. Mallory was off-limits. She was Bianca’s boss and Coop’s friend. He knew her only as a business associate, but despite his inability to keep from flirting with her whenever she was around, she was not the type of woman one made love to and then tossed aside. Ajay wasn’t into commitment. He avoided romantic entanglements at all costs. And worse, she was on the rebound. Definitely dangerous territory. For both of them.
He’d met her idiot former fiancé, Carlo Brunori, whose recent engagement to a French socialite indicated that he’d dumped Mallory for someone not half as beautiful but infinitely better connected. Ajay had never quite understood what Mallory saw in the man in the first place. Sure, he was Italian and a decent businessman, but every time Ajay ran into him, he was late-night clubbing with kids half his age or sunning on nude beaches in St. Tropez while Mallory was back at their villa running her business.
He’d found the pairing unusual, but as a live-and-let-live kind of guy, he’d said nothing. Mallory was a friend of a friend. Nothing more. Not his concern.
Until now. Now, she was concerning every inch of him.
When the elevator dinged on the top floor, Ajay caught her staring. Just like when the roles were reversed at the pizzeria, she held his gaze. But unlike that meeting, this time, she lowered her lashes seductively and then winked. Winked?
She was making a play for him. In a big way. Unless he was mistaken—and about these things, Ajay was never wrong.
The manager opened the double doors to the suite. The decor combined the dark, paneled wood favored in historic districts and light, breezy furnishings that fit the relaxed Florida lifestyle. The center room was a spacious combination of living room and kitchen, with an intimate table set for two near the balcony. To the left was one bedroom with a massive, decadent bathroom replete with garden tub. To the right, a second bedroom and bath with a quad-headed shower. Ajay’s brain was determining precisely where he’d point those pulses of water on Mallory’s naked body when he remembered they weren’t yet alone.
Their luggage was delivered. A hotel valet, an older man who greeted them with a quick bow, placed the suitcases in their rooms, filled their ice bucket and asked if they’d like him to unpack. They declined. Neither of them had brought much—and Ajay wasn’t sure if this was a blessing or a curse.
Mallory kept her hand on his arm while the guest relations manager showed them the rest of the amenities, from the wine bar stocked with Ajay’s preferred vintages to a selection of gourmet snacks in the refrigerator and sumptuous robes embroidered not with the hotel’s logo, but with a stylized bull for him and a chic scorpion for her.
She let go of him long enough to run her hand over the plush microfiber knit fabric. “That’s my sun sign,” she said. “Scorpio. How did you know?”
“I do my research,” he replied.
When the hotel had offered the service, he’d spared only a few seconds’ consideration before deciding a personalized wrap would be a nice gift for a woman who’d been a steady supplier to his business for quite a few years. Now he realized how personal the gesture seemed—and he wasn’t sorry.
He couldn’t resist touching the robe himself and the incredible softness only enhanced his need to graze his fingers over her skin. But he held back. He’d come to the hotel with Mallory for one reason—to convince Brock Arsenal to play his most famous ballad at Bianca and Coop’s wedding. And yet Ajay had arranged for them to share a suite rather than opting for separate rooms. Again, he hadn’t spared the decision much consideration, but he now realized that his subconscious had acted where his strong sense of self-preservation had not.
He’d been unable to keep his mind off Mallory since Tuesday night. He hadn’t intended to seduce her, but if she was pushing him in that direction, he did not have the strength of will to resist. What man would?
“According to your astrological sign,” he said, fingering the red raised embroidery that would nestle against her breast once she donned the soft robe, “you are passionate, exciting and obsessive. True or false?”
She pulled the robe away from him, and then seemed to catch her reflexive move and stopped short, instead rubbing the downy fabric against her cheek. “I didn’t realize a man like you would put stock in such things.”
She’d replied, but she’d given him no real answer at all.
“It’s my cultural background. No one in India makes a move without first consulting their astrologer.”
She laughed. “You didn’t get where you are by following the dictates of the stars.”
This much was true. He was entertained by astrology, but not a slave to it the way his mother seemed to be. And his grandparents. And to some degree, even his very reasonable, inherently logical twin brother. “Perhaps I should have. Maybe then I’d have been prepared for being alone in a spacious hotel room with you in this incredible red dress.”
She looked around, her surprise that the valet and the manager had both left evident on her face. He, on the other hand, had noticed the moment they’d discreetly departed. The entire atmosphere of the room had shifted and though daylight streamed through the bank of windows on the west wall, he couldn’t imagine a space that was more conducive to sex.
Two beds, each more plush and inviting than the other. Two bathrooms equipped with accoutrements to enhance lovemaking. A stocked wine bar. Loungewear that encouraged them to strip down to nothing and wrap themselves in its decadent softness.
How he was going to stop himself from coming on to her was a mystery. And one he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve.
Their mutual friendship with Coop and Bianca notwithstanding, he couldn’t see any problem with sleeping with Mallory. She’d seen him on the town. She knew he did not make promises to women beyond pledging that a night in his bed would be something they’d never forget. He never took phone numbers. He never played the role of pursuer. When a woman came on to him, he took notice and if she was attractive, entertaining and preferably had enough financial resources so that she would not bother with his, he followed through.
Mallory’s beauty was undeniable. Expressive eyes. Supple, dark skin. Long hair that reminded him of sable or mink. She wasn’t loquacious by any means, but what she said mattered. Her business acumen had made her quite successful—she had too much money of her own to be sniffing after his.
But in the past, she’d never looked at him twice. Even on Tuesday night, she’d hardly spoken a word, much less flirted.
What had changed?
She sauntered across the suite to what would be his bed and laid her scorpion-branded robe against the bull-embroidered one the valet had placed across the chocolate-brown duvet. The stark whiteness of the material against the rich color of the bedspread conjured images in his mind of how she’d look with the pearly fabric against her olive skin. When her eyes met his again, he couldn’t help but wonder if she was considering stripping down right then and there.
But sadly, her nudity would mean the removal of that spectacular red dress.
“What time does Brock Arsenal arrive at the hotel?”
Ajay blinked, then forced his brain to process the information she’d asked for. He returned to the main room and retrieved his bag, from which he took the prototype cell phone. Several taps later and he had the itinerary he’d put together.
“His flight lands at ten. He performed last night in Atlanta, and then spent today with his sister and her kids in the city. I imagine that once he arrives here, he’ll either be looking for a good nig
ht’s sleep or a wild rock ’n’ roll party.”
“We could provide the party,” she suggested, her gaze sweeping around the suite. “The manager would set it all up if you throw enough cash around.”
He’d actually considered that option, but now disliked the idea altogether. He suddenly wanted this room to be for him and Mallory alone.
“Maybe we’ll swing an invitation to whatever he’s doing.”
“Have you met him before?”
Ajay drifted toward her, standing at what he hoped was a safe distance in the threshold between the living area and his bedroom. She tossed out her sultry-voiced questions as she explored, running her fingers over the thick fabric of the drapes before she dragged the curtains closed against the midmorning glare and threw the room into golden shadows.
“Once,” Ajay replied, his throat tight. “Years ago. I don’t think we actually exchanged names. I was in London and someone in our dinner party invited him to join our table. I don’t believe he spoke to me. He was much more interested in flirting with my date.”
She hummed as if in understanding. “I’ve heard that about him.”
Again, she passed by the bed and smoothed her hand over the robe embroidered with her sun sign. “I read a blog on the Internet that called him the ultimate poacher.”
“I read that article,” Ajay said with a snort. “I believe there was another adjective in front of that noun.”
The blogger had actually dubbed the man a “pussy poacher” because of his proclivity for stealing women away from other men.
“I didn’t think I needed to be crass,” Mallory said silkily, lowering herself onto the edge of the bed and turning so that her sinfully long legs tucked against the mattress.
“The word doesn’t always have to be crass,” he replied.
Had the valet turned up the thermostat before he left?
“It usually is. In my experience, which I admit—” she met his gaze boldly “—isn’t extensive.”
But his was. Oh, boy, was his experience ever extensive. And yet, he suddenly felt uneasy and unsure, but in the most interesting way.
“I’ve found it all depends on how it is said,” he claimed. “And to whom. And when.”
She slid down onto the mattress and petted the plush robe, much like he wanted to pet her in precisely the part of her anatomy they were now skirting around discussing.
He couldn’t do this, could he? Seduce Bianca’s friend? Right before the wedding?
“Show me,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
She actually crooked her finger and beckoned him toward the bed. “Show me how that word can be used to seduce a woman. Must take a man with incredibly honed skills of seduction to pull that off.”
This was a challenge. A gauntlet thrown. A glove slapped across the face.
He shouldn’t. He had no business swinging in this playground.
And yet, he couldn’t resist falling to his knees at her feet.
3
MALLORY REMINDED HERSELF to breathe, but the conscious directive from her brain to her lungs did not seem to jump-start her respiratory system. The minute that Ajay knelt at her feet, a rush of air caught her unaware. She gasped.
“First, a man can’t say the word too loudly.”
His voice was the barest whisper. His breath skittered up her arm as he took her hand, his face level with her breasts. His gaze lingered on her curves and her nipples immediately tightened against the snug material of her dress. She’d opted not to wear a bra with this backless number and the decision was at once foolish and brilliant beyond measure. He eyed the twin outlines of her arousal hungrily, then swept his insatiable gaze down to her legs.
He touched her ankle. As if fascinated by the curve of her calf, he traced a light path up her leg, lingering at the sensitive spot behind her knee.
“If I whisper, you have to lean in to hear me,” he murmured.
She did as he requested, shifting so that her head was only inches from his mouth. His hot breath curled around the shell of her ear, igniting a wildfire of sensation against her skin.
“I also find,” he continued, nuzzling his nose against her hair, “that the word sounds best when delivered with a promise—the kind a man can’t help but keep.”
He pressed his lips against her neck. Electric sensations shot through her, an instantaneous awareness that centered in the part of her body he was talking about—and yet, so far, not mentioning at all.
“What kind of promise?” she dared ask.
His fingers on her leg had now ascended past her knee and lingered at the hem of her dress. He teased the edge of the fabric, tracing back and forth, but never crossing.
Every couple of strokes, he paused to kiss her, dropping his head slightly so that his mouth inched from her shoulder across her collarbone to the center of her sternum, directly above the swell of her breasts.
“Something like, ‘I’m going to slip my fingers into your sweet…’” he whispered the word and the popping P and sibilant S’s made her quiver. “Does that sound crass?”
His hand continued to tantalize, skimming at her skin, heightening her awareness so that she could not stop herself from imagining what it would feel like if he pushed passed her hem and fulfilled his pledge.
“No,” she said. “It’s sexy.”
When he licked his lips, she felt a swipe of moisture an inch above her nipple. She nearly cried out.
“It’s a sweet word. Slick. Slide. Sex. It all works to seduce the senses.”
She couldn’t stop her knees from parting, ready for him to make good on his promises.
“Yes,” she said.
She was answering his question. She was egging him on. Her sex pulsed for his touch. She scooted forward, meeting his tantalizing fingers halfway.
“What if I told you your—” he repeated the word again “—is warm and wet?”
“I’d ask…how you could possibly know,” she replied.
He chuckled, his mouth vibrating against her throat as he kissed his way up to her ear. His hand drew nearer to her center. He leaned forward, nudging completely between her legs.
“A man knows,” he said, kissing along her jawline. “I can hear your heartbeat. I can hear the blood rushing down into those luscious pink lips.”
“Which lips?”
He answered with a crash of his mouth against hers. On fire, Mallory spiked her hands into his hair and kissed him back. Their tongues tangled, battled and won little victories of sensation and flavor. He tasted like tea and sugar, but she drank him in like pure, sweet rum.
When he drew aside her thong, she remembered his original pledge.
“I don’t make many promises,” Ajay whispered, “but the ones I make, I keep.”
His words elicited an instant wave of moisture, hot drops that seared her thighs and intensified his measured, deliberate touch.
“Then keep it,” she begged.
“I will,” he replied, pressing his fingertip momentarily against her clitoris. “In my own time. My own way.”
He held all the cards, possessed all the power—and Mallory did not care. He parted her flesh, capturing the moisture pearling from her sex and swirling it into a building wave. Then he found her clit again, manipulating it until she panted for breath.
“Ajay,” she said. “Oh, God.”
“Say the word, Mallory,” he said. “What?”
“Say the word. Sing it in my ear. Confess it to me.”
When she complied, he pressed a finger inside her, jolting her with sensations she had not realized her body so desperately craved.
“Again,” he commanded.
She did and once more, he rewarded her, deepening his strokes, increasing his tempo.
She clutched at his shoulders, certain she was falling into an abyss of pleasure.
“Once more,” he goaded.
The third time, he pushed her over the edge. He lengthened his reach, quickened his pace. In what seemed like seco
nds, she was lost in a whirlpool of ecstasy. Her climax, so concentrated, burst from deep within her. He milked every last sensation from her body, kissing her long and hard until she could again see in sharp focus and the mere act of breathing did not singe the inside of her lungs.
Then, slowly, he put her thong back in place and tugged down the hem of her dress.
She stretched out across the bed, her body thrumming. For an instant, she wondered what he would do now. This wasn’t supposed to happen like this—so quickly, so unexpectedly.
Only that was a lie. From the donning of the red dress, every word and action she’d thrown his way since they met in the lobby had led them here.
The bed shifted as he lay down beside her.
She swallowed.
“Convinced?” he asked.
She managed a nod.
“Words are just words. We give them power.”
Mallory could offer no argument—at least, not one she could formulate with any degree of sense. She had not come to him for philosophy. She’d come to him for sex. And he not only knew it, he’d wasted no time in complying.
The question was, what next?
For the first time, she realized that up until now, she had not considered the aftermath. She’d focused on the man. Both sexy and sexual, she imagined that any woman who was in his presence for any amount of time knew that Ajay appreciated beauty and did not believe in denial. Now that she no longer had reason to forswear what she desperately wanted, she was drawn to his hedonism. He’d presented her with a priceless gift—an orgasm that had cost her nothing. One that did not, in the moment of release, give him a piece of her soul.
“Ajay,” she started, but what was she going to say? Thanks for the big O? I got what I came for, now it’s time to talk about that rock star?
He tilted an eyebrow at her. “Yes?”
Laughter burbled up inside her. Never in her life had she put herself into such a ridiculous yet liberating position. She attempted to cover her mouth to hold the hilarity at bay, but he caught her wrist.