by Sarina Bowen
“Flirt.”
“Tease.”
“Slut.”
“I try,” he shouted after her and she laughed, every muscle in her body loose. Short of a bout of tear-up-the-sheets sex, there was nothing better than dancing to get the juices flowing again.
And then Nick was in front of her. She lifted a hand to shade her eyes as she stepped into the bright light of the sun. God, he even smelled clean. His nostrils flared and she bet that she didn’t. The he grabbed her and she knew she could go for sweaty sex right there on the warehouse floor, sheets be damned.
“God, you’re filthy.” He wrapped his fingers around the waistband of her cutoffs and dragged her against him.
His hand in her pants burned against her skin as his mouth crashed into hers. She opened to him, his teeth scraping against hers, and gave herself up to be devoured.
When she stumbled back a step, he pushed her against the wall and slid his other hand between the back of her shorts and her bare skin to squeeze her ass. When he discovered she wasn’t wearing any underwear, he groaned his appreciation. She curled a leg around his thigh and sucked greedily at his mouth, yanking his shirt free of his belt, needing the feel of his skin under her fingers. The shouted goodbye from Marcus barely registered as anything other than an all-clear sign that the warehouse was now empty.
Nick hitched her leg higher on his hip and snaked his hand up under the edge of her shorts. He swallowed her sudden gasp when his fingers plunged into her and wet heat exploded between her legs. She dragged her mouth away from his and threw her head back. It rapped into the wall and she didn’t give a damn, as long as he didn’t stop what he was doing with those strong, clever fingers.
“Please tell me there aren’t any more Idris Elba look-alikes back there,” he muttered as she shoved the jacket off his shoulders and started to work on his tie. “If you aren’t naked in sixty seconds or less—”
“Everyone’s gone.” She struggled for breath between laughter and gasps. She wanted Nick’s clothes off. Right now. “Although Idris Elba does top Marcus’s celebrity-fantasy list. Are you sure you’re not gay?”
He leaned into her and she dropped her feet to the ground. She couldn’t keep her legs wrapped around his waist and get his pants off at the same time, and though she didn’t want to lose contact with him, the desire to have him naked trumped it. “Give me five minutes and the nearest flat surface and you can answer that yourself.”
Working at his belt buckle with one hand, she reached behind her and felt around for the big red button on the metal box mounted on the wall near the garage entrance. She smacked it and rusty chains creaked and clattered as the enormous door rolled down on its track, shutting out the sunlight. Success. She gave a tug and the leather belt finally slithered loose.
Circling around him, she let his belt dangle from the crook of one finger as she backed into the middle of the interior driveway. She toed off one battered combat boot and then the other. Standing in her bare feet on the oil-stained concrete, the leather strap still dangling from one hand, she popped the button of her cut-offs open with the other.
She smiled and wondered if he’d take a dare.
“Got a problem with the floor?”
She unzipped the shorts and let them fall to the ground.
Nick looked with real regret at his jacket, which lay in a crumpled pile on the floor. “I really like this suit.” She cleared her throat. When he turned back to her, she tossed him his belt, crossed her hands at the hem of her tank top and pulled it over her head.
“Right. I can’t believe you’ve got me carrying around condoms.” He stripped while she watched him, pulling a square packet from his pocket before letting his pants fall to the floor, and then strode over to her, swinging her into his arms again so she could wrap her naked limbs around him. “I’ll buy another.”
“Good call,” she said and locked her mouth on his.
They hit the floor and wrestled for control. Nick dragged his shirt beneath her head as he pinned her to the floor and skated his open mouth down her torso, heat blooming on her skin everywhere he sucked and tongued. Her back arched when he found the bottom curve of her breast with his teeth, his hand sliding between her thighs and pushing them open.
She shuddered for a moment and then bucked and shoved and rolled him over until she was straddling him. It only took a moment for her to open and smooth the condom down the hard length of him, squeezing her fingers tight enough around Nick’s cock to make him groan as she stroked him. The she pushed his hands to the floor with her own and slid down until she felt him hard between her legs.
No way was she going it alone on this one.
She closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of him as he slid centimeter by centimeter deeper inside her. She smelled sex and sweat and when she licked her lips, she tasted salt. Nick reached up and tugged her face down to his as she took him in. And when her tongue was in his mouth, his hands curved around her ass to brush fingertips against the place where their bodies were joined together. The rocking of her hips took over as she moved, blind and drowning in sensation, until the climbing heat controlled every muscle in her body and she shattered. Her cry tore through the empty warehouse as Nick shuddered and groaned beneath her.
She melted over him like warm taffy and collapsed with her head on his chest.
Now, that was what she called loosening up her muscles. If he sat up right now, she was sure she’d pour right off him into a puddle on the floor.
Gravel from that floor might be permanently lodged into her knees, she realized as she regained her senses.
“How is it—” his voice was muffled by her hair “—that the one time we were near an actual bed was the only time you couldn’t keep your eyes open?”
“There are several beds here. And I’m not sleepy at all.”
“You’re joking.”
“I am not. If you call that sleepy, I’m afraid to see what your idea of wild animal sex is.”
He shook her by the shoulders. “If there are beds, plural, then why do I have concrete scraping my ass? Just a question, you understand.”
She stuck her tongue out and tasted the edge of his pectoral muscle, loving the way it tensed beneath her delicate touch. His skin was smooth and surprisingly soft and tasted of citrus and sweat.
God, she was dying of thirst.
Rising to her hands and knees, she dragged herself off his body, trailing her hair, which had at some point come out of its rubber band, down his stomach until she pressed a kiss next to his belly button. She smiled as he sucked in a breath.
Jumping up, she walked naked across the floor to the mini fridge tucked in the far corner.
“I have eleven beds in here. Row six, shelving unit eleven, second tier from the bottom.” She stood up from the fridge and strolled back, dropping one of two bottles of ice water on his chest. He caught it one-handed. “If you wanna wait for me to get my strength back, I’ll drag one off the shelf and we can do it in a bed like grown-ups.” She cracked the lid of the other bottle and dribbled some of the cold water down onto his chest.
Nick quirked an eyebrow at her. “You have a thing for getting me wet, huh?” His grin was wicked. “Likewise.”
Hard to believe it, but he could still make her blush.
While he wiped off his chest, she chugged the rest of the bottle. He massaged her calf with one hand and followed her example, draining half of his own bottle without stopping. When he was through, he set the bottle on the floor and leaned his head against her knee. She dropped a hand into his damp hair.
She could enjoy the moment.
Right. Just stand here quietly and enjoy—
Yeah, that was enough of that. Sitting still was not a natural state of being for her. A moment of quiet just gave her the chance to figure out exactly how many tasks she had left in her day, tasks that should have taken priority over a quick fuck on the floor of her warehouse. This entire encounter was completely unlike her.
&n
bsp; “I need a shower.” She used the need to get dressed as her excuse to step away from him and scoop up her clothes off the floor. “What’s next?”
It didn’t seem to bother Nick that he was sitting cross-legged, naked, in the middle of the warehouse floor, watching her.
“You really can’t sit still for more than a minute, can you?”
Every time I get near you it feels like I’m losing control. But if she couldn’t stop her brain from softening around him, indulging in visions of waking up morning after morning in his big bed to coffee and bagels and Nick, she could certainly remember how to bite her tongue.
“Not on a concrete floor, I can’t.” She smiled at him, dodging the question. He smiled back, though she didn’t believe for a moment that he bought her answer. She repeated herself. “What’s next?”
He got up and pulled on his boxers and pants and picked up his button-down shirt, which he held in the air and eyed with suspicion. He gave it a shake and threaded his arms into the sleeves. “In the grand scheme of things? Or in the next hour?”
“Let’s try the next hour and see how the grand scheme of things turns out later.” She finished dressing and shoved her feet back in her boots.
“Do you have anything in that costume closet you call a wardrobe that’ll suit a cocktail party at Cité?”
She pulled her grimy hair back and secured it in a bun at her nape with the ponytail holder she’d spotted on the floor. She wiped her palms off on her shorts and rested her hands on her hip. Scanning the immediate area for any other evidence of their encounter, she punched the button to open the garage door and squinted into the light.
“I might.”
Chapter Five
He should have known better than to question her ability to dress to suit the occasion.
Any occasion.
Grease monkey, go-go girl and dominatrix aside, he hadn’t expected the woman who walked crisply across the street to where he waited in the backseat of his Town Car. She’d refused his offer to meet her at her door when he called ahead, of course.
She’d tamed her hair, but not with the dramatic ruthlessness of the tight knot she’d worn to meet him for dinner at Nomi. Tonight it was pulled low and straight across her brow and then back into a gentle chignon. Her black trench coat flapped open over an undecorated strapless white top that rode over her hips, wide-legged black pants and simple black pumps.
And pearls. A short circle that sat at the base of her throat and glowed palely against the delicate gold of her skin. Had he been asked before that moment, he would have bet, foolish man, that Maxie Tyler would sooner have hung naked in January from the top of the Willis Tower than wear pearls.
It was as if she’d decided to emerge into the world without playing any role at all.
At Cité, located on the top of the Lake Point Tower, the cityscape was even more impressive than in his apartment, since one could wander through the restaurant’s many rooms, observing three hundred and sixty degrees of the view. He trailed a step behind Maxie as they entered the crowded dining room and wasn’t surprised to see heads turn at her approach.
But for once, he didn’t have to wonder what the watchers were thinking.
He didn’t wonder if they thought he’d lost his mind.
No, he was certain that in this instance their thoughts matched his own: What a beautiful, elegant woman. Who is she?
He was beginning to think that he would never know.
She’d stopped on their way to the party to jump out of the limo at a flower shop and order bouquets for both of her sisters. A traditional gesture he wouldn’t have expected.
Which made him wonder if maybe Maxie was more traditional than he’d taken her to be? The surface layer of bohemian funkiness and artistic eccentricity went pretty deep. But she glided through the scores of introductions he made with a smooth conversational polish and an unexpected flair for gentle flattery that had more than one guest asking her at which function they’d met before. Was it the Green Tie Ball last spring? Or perhaps the Masquerade at the Lyric? Such a success that was, even if Bocelli did cancel at the last moment. He’s getting as bad as Pavarotti! Nick was positive that Maxie did not know, and would not have cared, that the evening was a celebration of the merging of two multigenerational financial institutions.
But she fit in with this crowd so flawlessly, you would have thought she was a recent graduate school award-winner, a young exec with an MBA from Wharton perhaps, or a Harvard Law grad powering her way up the ladder of success in international commerce.
Even the giggle and knowing look she shot a young woman in an atrociously low-cut gown who was clinging to the arm of a man old enough to be her father’s father brought smiles to the faces of the couple to whom they were talking.
Max Greenfield, head of one of the largest brokerage houses in the city, with an uncanny eye for undervalued stock offerings, grinned and leaned in close to Nick’s date.
“Always good to have one scandal in the room, eh Maxine? Gives the rest of us something to gossip about other than work.”
An uncut cigar held between his teeth, Greenfield winked at her and she giggled again, the sound like rising bubbles in champagne, and clinked her glass against his.
The evening drifted by with an unremarkable stream of casual conversation amidst the circling loops of servers bearing silver platters of hors d’oeuvres. From time to time, Maxie rested a hand on Nick’s arm with a touch so light he barely felt it. They were rarely alone. Toward the end of the evening, he started to feel as if a hazy net had floated and settled over them, obscuring his memories of their previous encounters, the frustrations of entering verbal battle with someone whose responses went counter to common sense.
It was as if all the rough edges had been smoothed away between them and he could bump up against her without getting scratched. It was smooth. It was easy. Even introducing Maxie to Elizabeth, the old girlfriend who was still his “plus one” for many society events, had gone well, without so much as a raised eyebrow or suggestive comment from Maxie. The business-slash-society reporter—who’d been stalking Nick since his public smackdown following the publication of a false article about an engagement between Nick and Elizabeth—had been hovering all night. Nick had been almost certain Maxie would make some kind of joke about threesomes and he’d been preparing himself to intercept the reporter if the man overheard her. He’d braced himself for the suggestive comment after Elizabeth moved on to meet and greet the next cluster of folks—and hell, there was nothing wrong with picturing that, although he didn’t for a moment believe in sharing his lovers—but the moment had passed without remark.
He was surprised to find himself missing Maxie’s unpredictability, the joy she took in playing a role just for fun.
On the sidewalk, when he stood at the curb and held open the car door for her, she shook her head.
“It’s late and I have a tremendous amount of work to do tomorrow. I doubt your bed would prove so restful a second time.”
Her smile might have been hotly seductive, but none of it was reflected in her empty eyes. She lifted her arm and a yellow cab slid from the passing traffic, pulling up behind his car.
“Thank you for the invitation, Nick.”
She leaned briefly against his arm to press a kiss to his cheek. Even her scent was cooler, a gloss of sophistication riding the night air.
“You’re welcome. Good night.”
She walked over to the cab and got in. It pulled away from the curb and rejoined the stream of fast-moving traffic. When the glow of its red taillights disappeared in the pointillistic cluster of vehicles waiting for the timed green lights of Michigan Avenue, he got into his own car and headed home.
That night, Nick slid between crisp sheets and spread out, arms and legs wide, in the middle of his big bed. After ruining his suit and bruising his ass on the cement floor of the warehouse, this ridiculous need he had for Maxie Tyler should have been burned out of his system. Add in a perfectly c
ivilized evening, and he should have fallen asleep immediately and enjoyed a night free of the erotic dreams of Maxie that had left him tense and sweaty upon waking for days now.
Instead, he spent the night punching his pillow and cursing his insomnia, remembering the empty look in Maxie’s eyes and wondering if just maybe he’d been tested somehow tonight. Tested…and found wanting.
* * *
Maxie tossed and turned until hitting herself over the head with something heavy started to sound like an appealing option. Sleep was impossible when your every thought was of the many twisted and painful ways there were to embarrass yourself by developing a ridiculous attachment to a man who was out your league, as the entire evening had shown him to be.
In the morning, instead of being rested and happy, as Nick undoubtedly was—sleeping the sleep of the aristocratic elite on Egyptian-cotton sheets no doubt—she was just tired.
She ignored the tinge of sadness that slipped into her exhaustion.
When Nick called in the morning—she’d programmed her phone to play JT’s “Suit and Tie” for him—she eyed her phone like something she’d accidentally stepped in. She didn’t feel like a little chipper chitchat before lunch. She hunched over her desk. Quarterly tax filings were more appealing, a sign of real trouble. She wished there were something requiring her immediate attention on set, but Heitman preferred to wait to nail down the details until after he’d finalized the blocking. She still swung by rehearsals every day or two, if only for the pure joy of watching the violence and disillusionment play out onstage with what she knew to be a truly stellar cast, assembled by a director for whom she was rapidly developing a willingness to walk through fire.
She ignored the midday call, too. And let voice mail pick up when the retro black rotary-dial phone in her office vibrated with its pealing if Clarissa wasn’t there to answer it for her and roll her eyes while pretending Maxie wasn’t sitting five feet from her. She was staring blindly out the window of her office when a familiar black car stopped across the street.