Well Hung

by Lauren Blakely

  Still, once bitten, twice shy, so it’s time to let these thoughts of her go. I start by releasing her arm.

  As we reach the ground floor and exit into the lobby, she says, “I have to admit, I’ll kind of miss seeing you around the office when you’re out here for a few weeks working on Lila’s home.”

  And hell, if that comment doesn’t hook into me even more. Before I can show off my mastery of self-control, the unfiltered portion of my brain wrests control. “And you know what? I’ll miss you, too,” I say, and it’s not the horny aliens. It’s just me.

  We reach the revolving door and head into the Vegas afternoon sun for the quick walk to the Bellagio.

  Natalie points in the direction we came. “I think I cut you off earlier. When we first stepped into the elevator and you said can I just say it?”

  I laugh as she rewinds us back to what I’d been thinking as we left the penthouse. “Just . . . holy shit. Lila is the most generous person I’ve ever met.”

  “She is generous. But you heard what she said. You’ve earned the right to her generosity.” There’s no teasing now in Natalie’s tone, and her compliment reminds me what matters—being a good guy. At work. In life. With women.

  I need to stop thinking of banging Natalie in elevators, and, on that same note, of missing her. That’s girlfriend-level stuff. Natalie is just an employee. Nothing more.

  I look at my watch. “It’s nearly four. Think there’s any chance we can find a watering hole willing to serve us at this early hour?” I joke, since it’s Vegas and round-the-clock drinking is not only possible but encouraged.

  “Absolutely. Let’s grab something at the Bellagio.”

  “Sounds good. How about an early dinner, some drinks, and an estimate?” See? I’m all work.

  “And then maybe we can celebrate later and ride the rollercoaster?”

  I say yes, because all work and no play makes Wyatt a dull boy.

  7

  Five hours later, Natalie shows me exactly where she wants to land a knifehand strike to my throat.

  “And then just to make sure you’re down, I’d spin around like this,” she says quickly, and executes a fast, low kick in the vicinity of my knee. “But, I’d totally kick you harder, and you’d crash to the ground.” She winks. “That was just my bar kick.”

  I shudder. “I’d hate to run into you in a dark alley, Sensei Natalie, whether you’re bringing your bar kick or your karate chop to my neck.”

  We’re at a noisy bar with rock music at the New York-New York hotel, since the rollercoaster is here. Natalie is already two drinks in—mojitos are her choice tonight. She’s been detailing exactly what she wants to do in her self-defense videos. Most of the time, she demonstrates the moves on me. Well, not like full demo where I’m flat on my ass, but she’s been pretending to punch me.

  Maybe I’m a masochist, but I love it. Or maybe I’m simply an attention hog for this woman. Whatever the reason, the outcome is all good in my book—her hands on me. But then, everything is good right now, because the job is a big green go, and we are celebrating.

  We worked up an estimate when we returned to the Bellagio. Natalie emailed it to Lila. Thirty minutes later, Lila wrote back with: “Wonderful! The first check will be deposited on Monday.”

  Which means a raise for Natalie, and the path to expansion for me. It also means Natalie’s racing along the highway to buzzed, and I’m not too far behind her. She’s changed from her work clothes. She wears a red skirt with some kind of surreal flower pattern, black heels, and a silky black top. The heels are hot, but flip-flops would have fit the bill, too.

  See, I’m an everything guy. I don’t have a particular type when it comes to women. Some gentlemen prefer blondes, some dig redheads, and some go bananas for women with exotic looks. Me? I’m an omnivore when it comes to the ladies, and I have a big, hearty appetite.

  Right now, though, with Natalie radiating energy and excitement, I’m thinking blonde with a side of spanking is my favorite. Maybe an appetizer of hot hungry kisses, a main dish of hardcore fucking, and for dessert, we’d go for doubles.

  Shit.

  I went there again.

  I blink away the not-safe-for-work thoughts and try to come up with a generic topic to riff on to get my mind back into the good-guy zone. Something that won’t set my fantasies on fire. Maybe what invoices we need to file. Or new tools to order. Possibly even what’s next on the schedule after this new Vegas job.

  But I’m not in the mood to discuss work, so I flash onto something I read earlier in the week. As I’m about to tell her my favorite weird fact I learned recently—cats don’t have collarbones like we do, which explains why they can squeeze into tiny openings the size of their heads—she moves in close to me as Bon Jovi plays on the sound system.

  “Look over there,” she says in a bare whisper. “She’s telling him all her furry fantasies.”

  I follow her gaze to a couple across the bar. The dude is Brooks Brothers all the way from the navy suit to the loosened red tie. The woman appears to be a colleague, judging from the crisp white blouse, or maybe she’s someone he just closed a business deal with. But with his arm draped over her shoulder, it sure looks as if he’s going to close some other kind of deal.

  “His raccoon suit is up in his room,” I say, since Natalie’s game sounds like more fun than cat facts. I tip my forehead to a Goth-looking woman with earplugs and the tattooed guy next to her, knocking back shots. “She dresses up like Little Bo Peep so he can spank her with a . . . fuck, what are they called?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Wyatt,” she says, in a faux admonishing tone, “they’re called crooks.”

  I snap my fingers. “That’s it. He smacks her ass with a crook.”

  For a flash of a second, Natalie’s breath seems to rush from her lips. “Kinda sounds like fun,” she says in a saucy tone, like maybe she’d want to play that sort of game. “What if I lost my sheep?”

  And evidently, she does.

  “Want me to help you find them?”

  The look in her eyes is inviting. “Yes. But to find them I need another drink. I want a vodka tonic this time,” she says, and since the bartender is circling, I order two.

  As he sets to work pouring, she parks her chin in her hand, looking straight at me. “I love vodka tonic. Want to know why?”

  “You bet I do.”

  But before she can reveal the root of her love for this liquor, the phone dings from her purse, bleating loudly enough to get our attention. She fishes around for it and clutches it close to her chest like a precious thing. “It’s Lila. At this rate, she’s probably calling to say she wants to pay us even more.”

  “Fuck, yeah. And I’ll give you all the extra.” I puff out my chest. “Because I’m a generous guy.”

  See? I can treat her well, and I’m not even thinking of nailing her.

  This second, that is. Ten seconds ago I totally was.

  “I think I might love you,” she says, and blows me a kiss as the bartender delivers our round.

  She slides open the screen, and her expression transforms. Her lips curve down, and she lets out a long, never-ending “oh fuck.”

  Her eyes slip shut, and she swallows then takes a breath. “Fuck a duck,” she says, but it doesn’t sound cute or playful. She sounds frustrated.

  My heart pounds against my rib cage, and worry takes root. “What is it, Natalie?” I ask, reaching for her arm.

  She opens her eyes and speaks in a monotone. “The job is cancelled.”

  All the buzz leaks out of me. “For real?”

  That just doesn’t compute.

  She nods.

  “Are you kidding me?” I ask again, because this makes zero sense.

  “I wish,” she says flatly, then reads the screen aloud. “Dear Natalie: I’m so sorry to be sending this, but Mr. Mayweather had a deal on another property that just went south. Sadly, I have to put the Vegas remodel on hold. I’m hopeful to return to it soon, and please kn
ow I can’t wait to work with WH Carpentry & Construction on it.

  P.S. I’m taking the jet home right now to comfort him. I know it’s not nearly the same, but I’ve arranged for first-class tickets on a commercial airline for you and Wyatt, leaving tomorrow afternoon. The tickets are in your email. I hope the service is sufficient. My best, and we will regroup soon.”

  Natalie drops the phone on the bar with a dejected clang, the sound resonating in my bones.

  Because . . .

  Fuck a motherfucking flock of ducks. This stings.

  I grab the vodka tonic and down half in one big gulp. She does the same with hers.

  “I’m sad, Wyatt,” she says, as those pretty lips droop once more.

  And that does it for me. I can’t stand the thought of this girl being sad. I want that smile back on her face, and I’m going to find a way to do it. I don’t care about how this job loss makes me feel. I need to make Natalie happy again, and that will also take my mind off this shitty news. “Hey,” I say, gripping her shoulder. “We’re in Vegas. Let’s make the best of it. Okay?”

  She sighs dejectedly.

  I park my hands on both her shoulders. “Seriously. We’ll figure this out. We’ll make this work. I’ll give you the raise regardless. But right now, right here, we have fun. Got it?”

  She shakes her head. “You’re sweet to say that, but you don’t have to give me the raise. I know it was conditional on the Mayweather job.”

  “No,” I say, correcting her, holding her gaze. “It was conditional on you being amazing at what you do. And that hasn’t changed. We’re not going to let one setback get us down. You’ve never been to Vegas before, and I promised to show you the sights. You name it. This town is yours, and we’re doing whatever you want tonight.”

  She shrugs then waves a hand dismissively. “I should have known better. It was a ridiculous, overpaying, crazy job. It was too good to be true. There’s no such thing as calorie-free chocolate, or a guy who’s funny, well hung, and sweet.” I want to protest, but she’s right, since no way am I sweet, “And the same is true for a client willing to pay twenty percent more for this job. They’re all unicorns.”

  “Natalie, it’s not ridiculous. It’s reasonable. You said it earlier. We’re good at what we do. Lila knows that. This is just a snag. Deals fall apart. I’ve seen this happen time and time again in this business. Hell, Nick goes through this with his job. I’m sure your sister would say the same. I bet she and Spencer have had deals from suppliers that fell through—it’s just the way it goes. We wanted it, it didn’t happen, we move on.” Since she hasn’t agreed to my make-the-most-of-the-night proposition yet, I keep going, the determined mofo in me steering the ship. “And no matter what, you still get a raise, so you can make your videos. And tonight? We’re having the time of our life. Deal?”

  Her lips twitch, and that’s the hint I need to press on more. I won’t give her a chance to be bummed. I search the bar quickly, and my eyes land on a middle-aged man in a turquoise tropical shirt, and a woman wearing a matching one. I drop my hand from Natalie’s shoulder, but lean in close and whisper, “Handcuffs for the Hawaiian shirt duo. Tonight, he’s cuffing her. And he’s giving it to her good and hard against a bedpost in the Flamingo.”

  “Yes,” she whispers conspiratorially, picking up the thread, like she can’t resist this game. “They’ve been married for twenty years, and they still do it every night.”

  That’s an interesting addition. I arch an eyebrow. “That sound like something you’d like, sweetheart?”

  She nods. “Someday. Especially since my last boyfriend wasn’t like—” She cuts herself off. “I shouldn’t say it.”

  My curiosity is piqued. “No, you should say it. I want to know.”

  She grabs her glass and takes another sip.

  “Tell me, Natalie. He wasn’t like what?”

  She runs her fingertip along the rim of the glass, avoiding answering.

  I give her a pointed look. “Fess up. He didn’t want to cuff you? Spank you with a crook? Do it every night?”

  Because I’d cuff her. I’d tie her up. I’d spank her. I’d fuck her on all fours. In a car. On a plane. Anywhere and everywhere and every night. No hang-ups for this guy.

  “Fine. He wasn’t very . . . interesting in bed.”

  And I’m hard. Just like that. Not because of her ex, but because of what this implies—that she is interesting in bed, and I’m very interested in interesting things happening between the sheets with her.

  “And you prefer interesting, I take it?”

  “Strange, that I,” she says with a wiggle of her eyebrows, “at the least, prefer regular nookie. And I think handcuffs, doggie style, public sex, and spanking are just fine and dandy.” She clasps a hand to her mouth and cringes. “Shit. I didn’t say that out loud, did I?”

  “Every single delicious word.” I smirk. “So, we have a deal? No more sad Natalie tonight?”

  She exhales, nibbles on the corner of her lips, then grins playfully. “As long as I can ride the rollercoaster, it’s a deal.”

  “You’ll get your rollercoaster, and you’ll get the full Vegas experience. Nothing less,” I say, holding out my hand.

  She takes it and we shake. “Full Vegas experience.”

  “One night. We’re going to fit it all in.”

  “We’ll go all out.” She sweeps her arm grandly.

  “Let loose.”

  “Throw caution to the wind,” she says with a full-wattage grin. She reaches for her vodka tonic, her elbow knocking her phone closer to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her text messages. The one from Lila is the most recent. But beneath it is one to Charlotte she must have opened after closing the Lila one, and the words flash temptation at me, like a line I shouldn’t cross but will anyway.

  I want him so badly.

  And that’s all I need to know. The words embolden me, and I return to what I’m pretty sure she was hinting at before Lila’s message landed. I tap her glass. “Tell me, why do you like vodka tonics?”

  “Guess,” she says, inching close, her command a flirty invitation.

  “Because of how it tastes on your lips when I kiss you?” I ask, trying that on for size.

  She says one word. Yes.

  And before I know it, I’m kissing Natalie.

  8

  Let’s back up.

  How did we get from not kissing to kissing? What was that turning point? Did she lean into me? Did I move closer to her? Details matter. I’ll gladly share them.

  Start with six months of sexual tension. Add in two mojitos for her, two beers for me, and a couple vodka tonics. Stir that with some bad news on the business front, and top it with the cherry of Natalie’s hit-me-over-the-head-with-a-stick comment that left no question as to what she wanted . . . and here I am.

  We don’t lean into each other. There’s no inch-by-slow-sensual-inch pull. It’s not a slow burn.

  It’s a fiery crash. We’re two cars speeding on the highway of this night, and we slam into each other, crawl across the hoods, and kiss like crazy.

  Nothing is tentative about this. We go from not kissing to kissing in less than sixty nanoseconds. Yeah, I don’t really know what a nanosecond is, either. But it happens in no time.

  And now my hand is in her hair, yanking her close as we crush our lips together. We kiss hard and rough, fueled by pent-up desire and more than enough vodka and rum to make this inevitable.

  Her teeth scrape me, and I growl, loving her roughness. I suck hard on her bottom lip, and I’m rewarded by nearly the same sound from her. She’s like a tiger, and together we’re animals.

  I grip her head tighter, and her hands are all over me—in my hair, then down my chest, then along my arms. We kiss so deeply, it’s like we’re trying to climb each other.

  At some point, she breaks off, breathes out hard, then whispers in my ear, “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

  “Not as long as I have. Now get those lips ba
ck on mine,” I tell her, and she complies.

  My hands cup her cheeks, but I’m not gentle, and she doesn’t want me that way. She’s not a gentle girl. She’s badass and tough, and she wants what I want. I hold her face tightly in my hands, and she practically crawls into my lap in a rush to get closer, then closer still as she presses her tits against my chest.

  I’m seated on a stool at the bar, and we are putting on some kind of show. But I don’t care.

  My tongue searches and hunts, wanting to taste every corner of her mouth, savoring the vodka and the tonic and, most of all, the Natalie. She whimpers and moans, and I swallow every sexy sound she makes.

  This stool is ours. This bar is ours. The night belongs to this kiss, because it’s not a starter kiss. It contains all the clues necessary to assemble the puzzle of where this night will end.

  With unwavering certainty, I know what kind of kiss this is.

  As I explore her mouth, and she claims mine with equal urgency, I know that I will be fucking Natalie tonight.

  Somehow we make it out of the bar. I pay the bill, she grabs her purse and phone, and we stumble into the big maw of New York-New York.

  “So, this whole Vegas experience.” Her eyes are flirty, her voice is naughty, and her hips sway as she walks. “Does the rollercoaster come next?”

  Now that’s an invitation if I’ve ever heard one. I RSVP to it. “Let’s ride it now. We’re making the most of every single second in this town.”

  I don’t say the next part—that come Monday we go back to normal. To work. Anything more than tonight is too risky, but I don’t want to lay down ground rules now. I want to be in the moment tonight. Besides, the vodka is already telling my brain who gives a crap about Monday? “We do it all,” I say instead, because that makes a helluva lot more sense right now than thinking about consequences.