“I like that you’re honest.”
“I don’t do this. Normally, I mean.”
He gives my hand a squeeze, where his body is branding mine. “The thought never crossed my mind, sugar. Innocence is an easy thing to spot.”
I snort a really unattractive laugh. “Innocent? Me?”
He doesn’t watch me. We’re walking, with his face in profile, his nose and brow and chin all so straight and strong. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“I could tell you a lot about me that isn’t innocent,” I say, although I’m not ready to counter him if he dares me to prove it.
“Then let’s start easy. You ever heard of a purity test?”
I laugh uneasily while nodding. “Quizzes people take when they’re a little lit and want to prove how badass they are. You notice that? The only ones who really push to play a game like that are the ones who want to show off. ‘Oh yeah, I’ve done it on horseback with Miss June and a banana. Haven’t you?’ ”
He’s smiling broadly when we reach the car. With assurance and grace, he turns so that his back leans against the side of the damp metal, then pulls me flush against him. His hands aren’t on my ass. They’re just above, just a tease. He could grab and hold on tight if he wanted. I feel vulnerable . . . and curious.
“I have nothing to prove. Miss June was a crappy lay, the horse threw us both off, and the banana was mushy.”
“I hope that isn’t some phallic metaphor.”
With eyebrows lifted, his eyes shimmer briefly in the strange, fog-drenched light. “Do you want to talk in metaphor, Keeley?”
I swallow, watching where the throb of his pulse beats at the base of his throat. “No. I said I’m nervous. That was just nerves. I’m . . . There’s . . . Okay, purity test. I’ve kissed guys. Sometimes sloppy. Sometimes gropey. Occasionally decent . . .”
“Nah,” he says, that drawl like a fine wine. “We’ll skip the metaphors. I’m too old for college games, and you don’t want to talk about it. I get it.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to talk.” I make a frustrated noise and work up my nerve. “Let’s just say I haven’t done much. And right now, I’d rather just . . . do.”
“Make music rather than talk about it?”
I smile despite myself. “Back to metaphors.”
He tightens his fingers around my waist, then leans down to brush his lips along my jaw. He finishes the slow, seductive string of touches when he reaches my mouth, until his lips settle briefly against mine. “Then I’ll skip straight to my big question. Are you a virgin?”
I drop my forehead against his chest. I could get drunk right there, breathing him in, the sting of salt and the bittersweet magic of sandalwood. It’s like he’s brought the best of the club out into the night with us, layered over the scent of him. I don’t know why I feel compelled to tell him the truth, to expose myself to him like this, but suddenly I’m saying, “Yeah.”
He lifts my chin. “Then we do this right.”
“This?”
After fishing keys out of his pants pocket, he opens the rear passenger door to the night black Mercedes. It’s an astonishing car. It reminds me of expensive watches and golf outings and galas where unflashy rich people—not celebrities, but the invisible elite—bid at silent auctions to support worthy causes. The interior is leather, just warm enough that I don’t get goose bumps, just cool enough to give me some relief from the hot, sticky night. Jude follows me inside. The door closes with a definitive sound.
“Here’s the thing, sugar,” he says, leaning back. We’re only touching at the thigh again, like the first time I’d watched Adelaide play. “You’re intriguing. I’ve been with intriguing women before, but they knew exactly what they were doing when they got into my car or came home with me. And that’s fine. We played accordingly.”
Play.
Play with Jude Villars. Such a harmless word.
“I get the feeling things are different with you.” He tilts his head to the side. His grin is at half mast. He appears tired, except for the piercing way he’s decided to stare at me, into me. “You’re here in the backseat of a car owned by a man you’ve encountered exactly three times. I’m guessing you’re here because you’re curious, and because you are brave. Backing down from a challenge doesn’t fit you.”
“Buttering me up?”
“Do I need to?”
“No,” I say with more confidence. I even smile. “I’m here. Get to the point, Mr. Villars.”
He chuckles. “We went over this, sugar. I’m Jude to you, or I’m nothing.”
“Get to the point, Jude.”
“So you’re here. . . . What do you want?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let’s pretend you’re in charge.” At that, he stops and our gazes catch. I can’t help but match his teasing grin. “What do we do right now?”
“What do we . . . ?”
He tangles his hand with mine and rests them together on the hard, flat plane of his stomach. “That’s a telling squeak. Is it so hard, sugar? To know what you want?”
It’s more the fear that I’ll never get what I want.
“Knowing what I want isn’t the problem,” I say quietly. “Telling you is.”
“Why?”
“Look.” A surge of past anger and nerves whirl together. “I chose to leave the club with you. I chose to get into this car with you.”
“Is that all you need? Or should I lock the doors for an extra hit of danger?”
Deliberately, he trails the finger of his free hand along the polished wooden door frame and slides, slides, slides until he presses the door lock. A sharp snick of sound makes me jump. Locked in together. I should be terrified. I should be running out into the streets, not calling for the cops but for terms of surrender. I’m done. You got me. I’m a scaredy-cat. I can’t say how much I want him to kiss me, because then I won’t get it.
If I keep my mouth shut, I won’t get it either.
I swallow hard and try to pull my hand away. “You’re making fun of me.”
He apologizes with his expression. Is a self-respecting woman allowed to let a guy off the hook if he smiles just the right way? “Yeah, a little,” he says. “Do you want to get out? For real?”
“No.”
He blinks. I would’ve too, had I been in his place. It’s the first firm thing I’ve said since leaving the club. “Then what does it matter that I’ve locked the doors?”
Because now things will happen. Whatever will happen, I want it more than I’m afraid of it. The fear comes from having it jerked away from me at the last second. But if we’re locked in . . . If he really wants to be here with me . . .
If he’s not doing this as some elaborate joke . . .
I take a deep breath and straighten my shoulders. If I’m going to sit side by side with Jude Villars in the backseat of his Mercedes, I’ve got to start with my backbone. Firm the hell up.
“What happened to If I want you, sugar, I’ll come find you?”
“This is me finding you.” He releases my hand and turns on the seat so that we’re face to face. There’s a wild light in his eyes that gleams nearly as bright as a swimming pool on a sunny August day. Ours mouths are so close that I can feel his breath, plus mine as it softly ricochets back from his skin. We’re sharing secrets in the dark. “I already know you’re clever. Learn right now that I hate repeating myself. This is the last time. What do you want, Keeley Chambers?”
“To touch the back of your neck.”
Another blink. I like that. He isn’t very good at hiding that small reaction. I wonder if anyone else has caught on: how to tell if you’ve surprised Jude Villars.
“Tell me why,” he says.
This is getting easier. I can almost breathe when I speak. “From the night last week when I stood behind you on the
stairs. You talked to me.”
“Talked down to you.”
“Flirted with me? Can we call it that? I don’t want to think you were being an asshole on purpose.”
“Fine.” That bright blue light shines in his eyes. I feel like I’m being soaked into him, dissolving into smaller and smaller pieces until I coat his skin and slip inside every pore.
“You turned away from me,” I say. “I was tongue-tied. So I just . . . stared at your nape. Where your hair hits your collar. It’s a little long for a businessman, isn’t it?” I angle my head to get a better view. Sure enough, the ends of dark hair carelessly curl around the ridge of his collar. “I wanted to run my fingers through it, to see if it’s as soft as it looks. . . .”
Explaining is one thing. Running my mouth into absurdville is another. I feel like an idiot for going so far until I see what it’s done to him. He’s breathing faster. His nostrils flare. “I’m not stopping you,” he says, the softest dare.
I reach up and twine a curl around my forefinger. But a hesitant touch isn’t what I need. I remember grabbing his collar and practically daring him to kiss me. Practically daring myself.
I lean forward. His upper body supports mine as I slide my hands from his broad, tense shoulders up to his neck, then back around. I dive in. Nails and all. I use his hair to feel deeper—the heat of him. He moans softly. A shudder works up and down his long body.
“You’re shaking,” I breathe, barely daring to believe it.
“Have you imagined kissing me?” His voice is a Southern gentleman’s rasp. It’s astonishingly sexy. I have goose bumps fighting to climb over even more goose bumps.
“Not at the time.” I shift on the seat. I’m so turned on. Being a virgin at twenty-one doesn’t mean I haven’t been turned on before, but it’s never been this pure. “I hadn’t gotten that far in my imagination.”
“But now?” He unthreads my ponytail and pushes my hair back from my shoulders. With his lips peppering my skin with kisses, he answers every touch of my fingertips with the touch of his tongue. “You’ve got more in you,” he says. “I want to hear it. Is it because you want to put your mouth on me?”
“Yes,” I gasp.
“Where? On my mouth?”
I shiver, flashing cold and hot. His lips are already near enough that they brush against mine as he speaks. “Later,” I say.
“Then tell me.”
“Right where I’m touching. Here, at the back of your neck.” I tighten my fingers around his arm, his composed strength—an outlet for my nervous, effervescent tension. “We’ve come this far. I’m curious. And I want . . . I want to be memorable.”
Fifteen
“Memorable?” Jude pulls away and cups my face in his hands. He has long and elegant fingers, as if he were the pianist. “To every guy you’re with?”
“I’d hope so. But you in particular.”
“Because of who I am?”
I’m made of bubbles. I’m made of TNT. Whatever it is, I burst out laughing. It’s not a long laugh, but it’s strong enough to buckle me in half. Jude lets go, with distance between us again. I peek up through my lashes and see his features weighed by a heavy scowl.
“You’re not used to being laughed at, are you?”
His lips pinch thin. He looks away. “No.”
My brain won’t keep a straight thought. I should be thinking wholly and exclusively about how strong his muscles are. Only one layer of cotton separates his skin from my touch.
“You said it yourself,” I say, “about how easy it is to learn about you. There’s no getting around that you’re famous and rich, or what everybody knows about your parents. You got away with it for one night, because I was stupid enough to think Adelaide was your girlfriend.”
I stop then. His parents. Killed when the cabin of their private jet depressurized. All aboard were already dead when the plane hit the ground somewhere in Iowa. The whole world could learn the gruesome details in three seconds. Every time he’s introduced to anyone, he has to wonder what they know of his past. I wouldn’t handle it very well, being that exposed.
There’s lightning in his eyes. “You do me the favor of telling me why you’re laughing.”
“I don’t do this. Like . . . ever. Not with anyone. The back of some guy’s car, just because he made an offer I can’t refuse?” I take a deep breath and tighten my hold on his upper arm. “But after tonight, I just hope . . . that you’ll keep wanting to come find me.”
“What did your Google search come up with about my personal life, Keeley? I’m curious.”
He must be mowed down by celebrities and debutantes and debutantes’ mamas. I keep asking myself, Why me? Maybe because he’s had the privilege of making a choice, just like I have.
“I read what I needed to, to fill in gaps,” I say plainly. “I didn’t want to find out the worst.”
“What would that be?” His accent is stronger now. He lays his right hand on my thigh and kneads gently. The gentleness is underlain with his lingering tension.
“That you crook your finger at every girl you meet. Equal opportunity playboy. I put on some rose-colored glasses and followed you out here.” I shake as if a rocket of cold air just skimmed through the car. “You dared me to get onstage last week. Now I’m in your car and you’re Jude Villars, and I want that rush. Because it was a rush, you know. All that applause.”
“No matter what we do,” he whispers, “there won’t be any applause.”
I cover my mouth to stifle a giggle. He doesn’t give me the chance to hide, pulling my hand down and kissing the inside of my wrist. “You never know. I might be the one to applaud.”
“That would be memorable.”
He kisses me.
It’s like he’s storming a castle with the gates wide open. I have nothing to defend myself with because his words have stripped me of anything close to resistance. His tongue is hot, softly pebbled, insistent. He dives in as if we’ve been lovers for months, and this is just another liberty I’ve permitted. You, Jude Villars, can plunder my mouth as often and as demandingly as you want. Signed sincerely, Keeley Chambers.
I cross my arms behind his back and find us pulled flush together. His arms are so strong. Whatever predator I imagine him being, I should’ve been more specific. He’s a sleek panther, all dark hair and lithe muscles. He plunges his tongue into my mouth, taking over, taking me over so completely.
“Memorable, sugar,” he says against my throat, then kisses my lips, eyelids, forehead. His hand moves to my breast but stops short of touching where I arch toward him. “You brought it up. Make it happen.”
I hesitate, as if I’m standing at some dessert buffet and have no idea where to start. His shirt is open at the throat. Maybe I could undo a few more buttons. . . .
I do.
“You have no idea how sexy it is to watch your eyes. You think over every move.” He cups my face in his hand once again. “You want to be bold. So do it, sugar.”
“You’re making fun of me again.” I turn my head just enough so that I can gently sink my teeth into the meat of his hand, where his thumb meets his hand—a silent, desperate release for all the things I can’t voice.
He hisses. “See? I’m waiting to see which impulse wins out.” With his free hand he grabs one of mine and pushes it flat against the hard ridges of muscle that make up his thighs. He’s positioned my fingertips within an inch of the bulge I can see deeply shadowed and outlined by his taut slacks. “But I admit to having a preference.”
I bite harder on his palm. I’m so tense, so wound up, so utterly outside myself—until it all comes snapping back to me.
“I—I can’t do this.”
I turn at the waist and reach for the handle of one of the locked doors. He’s faster. And so much stronger. My hands are pinned behind my back, with Jude levered above me, before I can
even gasp. But rather than turn all date rape, he brings his hand to his mouth and sucks the skin I bit. “Yes, you can do this. I’ve seen how powerful you are when you let go. Here we’re alone, and I want to see that power again. Make me feel it.” He whispers low and dark. “Give me something to wake up smiling about. To wake up hot and wanting. Shock me, Keeley. I dare you.”
Sixteen
“Move,” I say—talking, doing, not thinking.
Our body heat has made the smell of leather more potent. More primal. Condensation has turned the Mercedes into a bedroom with the curtains closed. Jude raises quizzical eyebrows and does as I demand. It feels like a demand. His grin, however, reinforces what we both know: he’s letting me do this. He’s no more taking orders from me than I’m forcing him to do something he doesn’t want to do. This is him waiting for me to be shocking.
This is me hoping that I can manage.
I scoot around so that I’m behind him. My chest to his broad back. He tries to look over his shoulder. I grab his head in my hands and nip a kiss on one earlobe. Maybe I use too much teeth, because he hisses again.
“Sorry,” I whisper, nearly losing my nerve.
“Don’t you dare stop. Whatever the hell this is, I want all of it.”
“Then you deserve this.” I angle his head toward my face, rediscover his earlobe, and suck. I scrape my teeth along that tender skin. His groan rumbles into me, nestling beneath my sternum. That groan wraps around my heart and squeezes, speeding it up, making me breathless.
I roll the palms of my hands around his waist and up, up his fiercely proud chest. He’s cut. Ripples in all the right places. From behind, I finish unbuttoning his shirt. I try going slow at first, but my fingers are made of putty and I’m trying to do things in a rush so he won’t freak out and decide against the whole deal.
He takes my fingers in his. He doesn’t look back at me, just lifts each to his mouth. Kisses each knuckle. Then says, “Deep breath, sugar.”
Together, we inhale. It’s astonishing. I know it’s not sex, and I’ll probably laugh one day when I make the comparison, but when we both take a deep breath at the same time, with my nipples so sensitive when pressed against his strong back, breathing as one, I think of it as making love. It’s the most intimacy I’ve never known. Without prompting, we do it again. One long breath in, one long exhale to get rid of the nerves. Nerves are getting in the way of what I yearn to do. I just want to be able. Whether it goes well or he likes it or it gets me buzzing—that doesn’t matter when I need my hands to cooperate.
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