Exposed: A British Bad Boy Romance

by Sennah Tate

  We?

  “I’m actually not—”

  He raises an eyebrow at me, “One drink, one question. Deal?”

  I bite into my bottom lip, already feeling like this is probably a terrible idea. I can’t stop thinking about his naked ass on display, his finely sculpted body pressed against me in his hotel room, or the very large bulge that had tented his boxers.

  Come on Susie Q. You can stay professional and keep your legs closed.

  Jasper doesn’t wait for my answer, that cocky fucking shit-eating grin is plastered across his face like he already knows he’s won.

  “Fabulous. What’s your poison? No… don’t tell me. With that little southern twang thing, I’m gonna guess you’re a whisky gal aren’t you?”

  I groan, “Ugh, no.” Turning to the host who’s still patiently waiting for our order though it’s clearly not his job, “Tequila, neat,” I turn back to Jasper. I’m more than a little satisfied at the curve of his brow that says he’s impressed with my order. “And I do not have a ‘southern twang thing’.”

  “Let’s see after a few of those drinks,” he grins and my stomach does a somersault. “Make it two,” he says and the host nods, disappearing in a flash.

  “So what is it that Suzette Quincy is dying to know about Jasper Wild?”

  I purse my lips before blurting out, “Is that even your real name?”

  Jasper laughs — a warm tumbling sound that makes my heart race in strange and unusual ways, “Not exactly. Jasper’s my given name, but my parents saddled me with a surname with much more pomp attached.”

  My eyebrows shoot up, but before I can ask my follow-up a cute pixie of a bartender wanders over with our drinks.

  “Anything else I can get you?” she asks, trying pointedly not to ogle Jasper.

  Why does her attention make me want to scoot a little closer to him? Place a hand on his arm possessively? There’s nothing about this situation that would make that appropriate.

  “Just keep ‘em coming,” Jasper says and my stomach flips at the thought of so much liquor in my system.

  “I really don’t drink that much,” I hazard.

  He simply flashes that devilish grin and raises his glass for a toast, “This should be interesting then, shouldn’t it?”

  I’m holding the glass in my hand, just staring down at the clear liquid, pondering clinking glasses with Jasper. This could easily be my point of no return. If I start drinking, I’ll start flirting. Flirting with a man like Jasper could only lead to one thing.

  Alisha’s chipper encouragement plays over in my head.

  “Come on, then,” he shakes his glass a little, “you owe me for that question.”

  Aw, hell. Here goes nothing.

  The rims of our glasses tink together, nearly inaudible, and Jasper watches me intently as I take a sip of the high-grade tequila.

  After the first, I take another, immediately following it with “So what made you want to become a chef?” The alcohol burns through my veins and warms me from the inside.

  For a moment, his expression goes stony, but then he offers one of his patented shrugs and gives me a thin smile, “The usual boring reasons. Why did you want to become a writer?”

  I start to answer, then stop myself.

  “Drink first,” I say and he does.

  “When I was a kid, my grandfather lovingly produced the Barsonville Bugle. I loved helping him fold the papers. It felt like something special between the two of us, getting up at two or three in the morning to get everything ready to go. The smell of fresh ink still makes me think of him,” I say, getting a little wistful without meaning to.

  “Well that’s a rather touching story, but it still doesn’t explain a lot. You’re not working for a newspaper. How’d you end up at a shitty tabloid?”

  I eye his glass and he drains it with another shrug.

  “The tabloid is step one. Simons Media International has hundreds of publications, TV shows, radio, everything and they like to promote from within.”

  “So what’s the ultimate goal then? Taking over for Barbara Walters?”

  I frown; it’s not that I haven’t given thought to where I’d like to end up, it’s just… Well, actually being in the business has opened my eyes to some of the more unscrupulous aspects of publishing.

  “I think my own column in a national newspaper would be nice,” I say and he accepts it without question.

  The drinks are flowing between us and I realize I’m drinking without remembering to ask questions, just actually having a decent time with Jasper, though it surprises me.

  “Why don’t you like to give interviews?” I finally ask, my words a little slurred after a handful of drinks.

  Jasper’s eyes have this glazed quality to them and he’s staring — I’m not sure if it’s at me or through me. “What’s the point?” he grumbles, “People have already made up their bloody minds about me.”

  I feel a frown tug at my mouth and realize he’s right; I certainly already had my mind made up about him before we ever met. It seems like everyone that sees him either expects a sex god or an asshole. Sometimes both.

  Business at the restaurant around us is picking up as the lunch service blurs into the after-work crowd. There’s music piping in through the speakers, some catchy pop tune in a foreign language, and our once-secluded booth is starting to feel less secluded with every new patron at the bar.

  “So what do you wish people knew about you? What would surprise them?”

  Jasper moves toward the middle of the banquette and gestures me over, “C’mere,” he waves, his movements a little sloppy, “I don’t want to shout across the table any more.”

  I didn’t feel like we were shouting, but the warm trickle low in my body has me scooting my hips closer to him until we’re only inches apart.

  “So?”

  He scratches the rough growth on his cheek, “Would you believe me if I said I have a soft spot for persistent journalists?” he asks in a husk right next to my ear. His warm breath sends a shiver down my spine and I hear myself giggle in response.

  “Nope, I wouldn’t.” I’m quite certain I’ve been nothing but a thorn in his side since we’ve met and it’s a little strange to me now that he’s flirting.

  He is flirting, right?

  I think back to my conversation with Alisha: I’m sure he flirts with everyone.

  But did he take everyone out for drinks in a dimly-lit place?

  Probably.

  I know I shouldn’t delude myself into thinking anything about this is special. Jasper’s known for playing the field. These are probably his signature moves and I’m the one dopey enough to think it means something.

  He snakes one arm around my shoulders, his fingertips drawing little circles on my upper arm near the hem of my sleeve. In his other hand, he drains his tequila and then sets the glass down, letting his hand slide onto my thigh.

  My whole body tenses in anticipation. The roar of uncertainty in my ears makes it difficult to hear what he’s saying and I find myself staring at his lips as they move, drifting closer to him, licking my lips, imagining what he tastes like…

  “What if I told you I’m not as bad as everyone likes to think?” he murmurs, sucking my earlobe between his teeth.

  I nearly melt into a puddle right then and there, but I know I have to get a grip. He’s trying to distract me. Keep me from something juicy he doesn’t want published. That has to be his motivations for this, right? He couldn’t just… want me, could he?

  A silent gasp escapes my lips and I pull away from him just enough to look him in the eye.

  “I’m not sure I believe you,” I say, dragging my gaze from his bottomless navy eyes to the tattoos splashed over his body. Without instruction from my brain, my hand covers his, my fingertips dance over the back of his hand, past his wrist to trace the outline of a wicked-looking chef’s knife on his forearm.

  “Fair enough. What if I say I’ve never had any complaints about my bad be
havior?” Jasper’s hand creeps higher up my thigh and warmth floods my body like it was just dumped over my head.

  I’ve gotta shake this off before I let it go too far.

  The bartender brings us another round and I pull a face at the twin glasses, “Ugh… why did I let you talk me into drinking?”

  He grins, “Because you’re just dying to know everything about me, aren’t you, luv?”

  “No,” I lie, wrinkling my nose, “but if you’re going to keep grilling me, you need to get on my level,” I slur, feeling myself sink into his warmth a little more.

  Shit.

  “Alright, I’ve got a question for you, Susie,” he practically purrs nuzzling against my neck with soft kisses and sharp nibbles. It’s hard to remember that we’re in a public place as his fingers tease the hemline of my skirt and I hear myself moan quietly.

  His hand leaves my thigh and I bite back a whimper at the sudden loss. He tosses back the fresh drink in one long gulp and his face flushes crimson for just a moment as the alcohol takes its hold.

  He’s just as sloshed as I am, I think, knowing this is a recipe for disaster but already too far gone to do anything about it.

  “Okay, shoot,” I say, my voice quivering ever so slightly.

  Jasper’s calloused hand returns to my bare thigh and pushes upwards even more and he leans in to whisper his question, “What have you got on under this devastating skirt?”

  The very tips of his fingers reach the damp fabric between my legs and I hiss with an intake of breath, anticipating more. Wanting more.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” I breathe in a rush, his fingertips still barely grazing against my panties.

  “I’d much rather see, actually,” he says.

  I manage a laugh, “In your dreams,” but even I don’t hear any conviction in my voice.

  “Maybe sometimes.” He presses his fingers against me with more pressure and I do my best not to grind against him under the table. My head is spinning and my whole body is coiled, poised, ready for him to give me what I so badly want.

  Lightning shoots straight to my toes as he brushes a knuckle against my clit and my eyes nearly roll back into my head with a groan of satisfaction and longing.

  “I thought—” I pant, “I thought your dreams had an All-Star cast?” I manage.

  He takes my hand then and places it in his lap. There’s no mistaking the bulging erection straining against his shorts, pulsing with warmth beneath my hand.

  God this is so wrong. I shouldn’t be sitting this close to him. I shouldn’t be letting him touch me like this. And I definitely shouldn’t be touching him.

  I drag my fingers along the steel length of him, imagining him sliding into me… We could have fun. It wouldn’t have to mean anything. I’m sure he’s fantastic in bed.

  But this is work. I need to stay professional. It’s hard enough to make it in this business as a woman without being seen as easy on top of it.

  Still, my hand glides over him. I can’t resist.

  Jasper sucks in a breath at my hesitant touch and shakes his head, “The director’s made some changes recently. Corrupting a good girl is one of my favorite pastimes.”

  My body tenses and he seems to sense that he said something wrong because he’s withdrawing his hand, leaving it on my thigh.

  “I don’t know where you got this idea that I’m some good girl. I know how to have fun and be wild,” I say, sounding unconvincing even to myself.

  I’m sure my definition of ‘wild’ and his vary vastly.

  “Alright, bad girl, then tell me what kind of panties you’re wearing.”

  “I—” My face is hot with embarrassment, but my body is hot with something else altogether. Then he gives me that fucking smirk that says he’s won because he knows he’s backed me up against a wall I don’t want to climb.

  Fuck that. I’m not letting him win. I’m not going to let him make me uncomfortable just for his entertainment. Two can play that game and I’m just drunk enough to think that it sounds like fun.

  “I need to go to the ladies’ room,” I finally announce, removing myself from his grip and sliding away from him as fast as if he were covered with a swarm of bees.

  Jasper’s expression falls, though there’s still something playful in his eyes. Something satisfied and hungry that has me muttering insults all the way to the restroom.

  Arrogant prick. He thinks he’s backed me into a corner.

  I’ll show him.

  By the time I come back, my stomach’s in knots and I don’t know if I can actually go through with it.

  “There you are. I was worried you’d gone and ditched me,” he says, though his easy posture says he’s never been less worried about anything.

  At my side, my hand’s balled into a fist, trembling. I slip back into the booth and grab his wrist, “Here, I brought you something,” I say, pressing the fabric into his palm.

  My stomach does this nervous little trapeze act and in the moment between that action and Jasper’s next words, I’m absolutely certain I’ve lost my Goddamned mind.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Jasper

  While Susie’s gone, I have time to ponder my good luck this evening. What had started out as a shitshow was made infinitely better by Susie’s influence.

  Though I’m certain my night could have been made infinitely better by fingering just about any girl under the table, there’s a small part of me that’s glad it was Susie.

  I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table, lacing my fingers together to support my chin. Instantly, Suzette’s spicy musk lingering on my fingers invades my senses and I can’t help but think of sliding my hand between her legs, stroking her velvety lips, parting them with a digit and plunging inside her welcoming depths.

  Fuck.

  I groan, shifting the nearly painful erection I’ve been sporting all fucking day around Susie. It’s like my cock’s a dowsing rod seeking her wetness, ever alert.

  I spot her heading back towards the table, her cheeks furiously pink, her posture tight. I can’t rip my eyes away from her. There’s a subtle inebriated sway to her steps that accentuates the curve of her luscious hips and the bounce of her incredible fucking tits.

  I could bury my face in those tits, suffocate, and die the happiest sodding bastard on the planet.

  She slinks into the booth next to me and I swear I can smell her arousal like a perfume — my mouth waters at the thought of tasting her. Throwing her knees over my shoulders, her thighs clamped around my head as I make her come again and again and again.

  I lean back and tease her about being gone so long, but she doesn’t laugh or even crack a smile.

  She’s reaching for my hand and pressing something soft and damp into my palm.

  “I brought you something,” she says, her voice this sexy little whisper that turns my blood to fucking lava.

  “Wha—” but before I can even get a full syllable out, I’m unraveling the bundle and my heart damn near stops.

  Her fucking panties.

  I have to admit, I’m stunned for a moment. Frozen in time, just staring at the simple black thong, the drone of a billion locusts in my head.

  She sees my reaction and her nervous fidgeting gives way to a sly satisfied grin, “Not such a good girl after all, huh?” she boasts, her chest expanding with pride.

  “Susie Q’s got a naughty streak, eh?” I finally manage, pulling my wits together enough to make a long elaborate show of bringing her panties up to my nose and inhaling.

  In a flash, her smug grin is replaced by fresh shock and horror and she’s smacking my wrist, “Someone’s going to see!” she cries, now thinking better of her little escapade as she’s trying to snatch the scrap of fabric back from me.

  “Little late to be modest now dear,” I taunt her, extending my arm in the opposite direction.

  She crawls over me, reaching. Then my hand’s on her hip, settling her in place as she unwittingly straddles me.

  �
�Mmm,” I lean forward to press a kiss against her neck as my free hand slides up her outer thigh. “Excellent choice in seating, luv.”

  She’s wriggling, trying to grab her panties as my hand slides around the back of her thighs, over the soft globes of her ass before they wander further.

  My fingertips just barely brush against her lips before she’s crimson again, climbing off of me, “Fine, keep them.”

  “Oh, I will,” I chuckle, shoving her panties in my pocket, “I might even frame them. Could look nice hanging above the mantle, don’t you think?”

  She rolls her eyes, “You’re really ridiculous, you know?”

  “Says the girl that just handed me her underwear.”

  “Ugh, can you let that go already?” She groans and reaches for her drink, “Aren’t I supposed to be asking you questions?”

  “Sure. That counts as one,” I say, trying my best to wipe that sour look from her face.

  It only gets sourer, her mouth screwed up in an expression of distaste for me.

  “Okay, fine, I think I owe you a few still. Go ahead.”

  “How many women have you slept with?”

  I frown, “Is this Suzette Quincy, journalist asking, or soaking wet for me and pantiless Susie asking?”

  She narrows her eyes, “I’m not… wet… for you,” she mutters.

  I quirk a skeptical brow and finger the little bit of silk still hanging from my pocket, “You’re a terrible liar.”

  “More than ten?” she asks and I’m indelicate enough to laugh out loud.

  “At once?”

  She purses her lips, but doesn’t comment.

  Then she’s leaning over, her fingers tracing the medieval-looking lion on my bicep with an exploratory touch, “Why’d you get this?”

  Her gentle grazing finger makes the hairs on my arm stand on end, but there’s no way in hell I want her to stop touching me.

  “I thought it looked cool,” I say.

  She looks disappointed and nods, “It does. Did it hurt?”

  She’s leaning in so close to me now. It would be so easy. Too easy.

  Before I can stop myself, my hand cups her jaw and I pull her in for a kiss. I’m not sure how she’ll respond, so at first, I barely brush my lips against her.