by Tara Leigh
I feel the tension coiled around Nixie’s spine fall away. Her shoulders loosen, her chest expanding to take in a deep breath. “You’re right,” she says, releasing a laugh that skitters along my nerve endings. “No porn, no sex, but definitely a big vat of buttered popcorn.”
I nod at the doorman, feeling about ten feet tall. As the twins would say, I turned Nixie’s frown upside-down. “You drive a hard bargain.”
Nixie
Nash pushes the elevator call button, flashing a grin that punctures my lungs like a pin through a balloon. His smiles always leave me breathless, but this one is a doozy.
I enter the mirrored enclosure first, keeping my eyes firmly averted from Nash’s reflection as we are shuttled upwards. I don’t want to risk another peek. He’s too damn attractive for words and every glance sends a kaleidoscope of winged butterflies practicing their aerials in my stomach. And they’re multiplying. Rapidly.
Unlocking the door with his keycard, Nash holds it open and I catch a whiff of his scent as I brush past him. Woodsy and clean, he smells like a forest. “Aren’t I kind of cramping your style? I mean, this place is supposed to be your love nest, right?”
He quirks a rich, chestnut brow several shades darker than the hair on his head. “Love nest?”
“What would you call it then? One-night-stand central? Sex cave?”
My breath hitches as he steps closer to me, tucking a finger beneath my chin and forcing my head back. “Nixie, I do believe you have sex on the brain.” His hand moves, sliding around my neck, his thumb sweeping along my jaw. “All you have to do is ask.”
Ask? I’m this close to begging. Capitulation has never sounded so sweet. Can Nash feel the desire churning in the pit of my stomach? Smell my longing? I step back, just out of reach. “Where’s the remote?”
What I really want to know is: Where is my willpower? What happened to my determination to get away from Nash, away from this suite?
His soft chuckle dances along my spine as I set Kismet down. She walks tiredly to her crate and curls up on the bed inside.
Nash lifts the phone to his ear and orders popcorn from room service while I tug at the drawers of the TV console, finally locating the remote. “And a milkshake, too,” I add. “Vanilla, extra thick.”
Nash coughs. “Also, a vanilla milkshake. And the lady prefers it thick. Extra thick, actually.” Lips twitching, he hangs up the phone. “Coming right up.”
“Why is everything sexual with you?” I say, scrolling through the movie options. “I swear, you’re like a horny teenage boy.”
“I’m afraid men don’t exactly outgrow the horny stage once they hit their twenties. Or their thirties. Or ever, probably.”
I roll my eyes. “Are you telling me that beneath your clothes, you’re still the same horndog you were ten years ago?”
He mutters a curse. “Nixie, I think you need to stop talking unless you want to find out exactly what’s beneath my clothes. Although, given your taste in milkshakes, I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
Heat rises up my chest and neck, setting the tips of my ears on fire. Nash is right. I need to stop talking. Flopping onto the couch, I immerse myself in the hotel’s movie selection. But it’s hard to concentrate when all of my brain cells are focused on the man standing just behind me, his fingers lightly trailing over my shoulder.
Luckily, there’s a knock on the door announcing our popcorn and the milkshake I doubt I’ll ever order with a straight face again. While he deals with the delivery person, I quickly find a movie I’ve been meaning to watch and press play.
Nash hands me the drink and sits down, putting the tub of popcorn on the cocktail table. “So, when are you going tell me what happened between you and Derrick?”
I swallow a mouthful of my shake, the cold concoction sliding along the roof of my mouth and into my throat. “I wasn’t planning on it, actually.”
“Then you should probably get used to staying here. No way you’re going back until he’s out of the picture.”
“Do you have a kid sister?”
“No.”
“Well, I think you should get one. You have this whole overprotective act covered, you might as well find someone to appreciate it.”
He grunts. “You appreciate it. You just don’t know it yet.”
“If you want to know the truth, you sound just like Derrick.”
“Oh yeah? How so?”
I cock my head to the side. “Nice try, but I’m not so easily manipulated.”
He grins, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Worth a shot.”
We settle into the movie, although I can barely focus on it. The side of my body facing Nash throbs as if I’ve spent the day tanning on the equator. When Nash reaches for my leg, I practically jump out of my skin. “What are you doing?” I squeal.
“This movie sucks, I need something else to do.” His hand wraps around my ankle and brings it into his lap, flinging my sneaker to the opposite end of the room.
Seconds later, the tips of his thumbs are sliding along the arch of my foot. I groan, putting my half-finished milkshake on the table and letting my head fall back against the couch. “Oh my god, if you had told me about this particular skill I never would have argued about staying here.”
“I’ll have you know my list of skills is very long.”
I sigh in pleasure as I look over at him, not even minding the thinly veiled hint. “Are you saying you’ve got mad skills?”
Nash winks. “Hell, yeah. The maddest.”
Dear god. That wink. Those hands. I’m a goner. After a few minutes, he reaches for my other ankle, pulling it into his lap like a limp strand of linguine. “Mmmm. Okay, I have to ask. You’re not going to expect the same, are you? I don’t really do feet.”
“I wasn’t doing this as a quid pro quo, although since you’re offering a trade . . . ten questions is more than fair for two feet.”
Pulling my feet away isn’t an option. “Two feet, two questions.”
“Eight.”
“Two.”
“Six.”
“Two.”
“You might not realize this, but I negotiate deals for a living. I’m pretty sure you’re doing it wrong.”
“That’s because I don’t negotiate.”
“Everyone negotiates.”
“Not me.”
“Five.”
“Two.”
Nash lifts my feet off his lap.
“Okay, okay. Three.”
“Four.”
“Three.”
“Deal. How do you know Derrick?”
“Wait—what? Three questions with yes or no answers!”
I look up to see Nash shaking his head. “Too bad. You didn’t negotiate that. Two feet, three questions, period.”
I wrinkle my nose, thinking. “Fine, but I get veto power.”
“One veto, I can live with that.”
“Three.”
“None.”
“One.”
“Done.”
I blow out an anxious breath as Nash’s delicious fingers move up to my calf. “I’ve known Derrick since I was a kid. Our fathers were friends who went into business together.”
“And?”
“Is that your second question?”
“No, it’s me calling you out for giving half an answer.”
Nash presses the inside of my knee and I swear I see stars. “When I was in high school, we started dating. He was older but he treated me like a princess and I thought the sun rose and set on his head. But as time went on, he wanted me to still be that wide-eyed teenager who was completely in awe of him. I loved Derrick, but that wasn’t enough for him. We’d break up and get back together for . . . years. It wasn’t a healthy relationship, and I finally ended things for good.”
“And that’s why you ran away from him?”
“I never said I ran away from Derrick.”
“You didn’t need to. Second question: why?”
This
is what I’ve been trying to avoid. I’m not ready to tell Nash the whole truth. There’s something about September 11th that automatically shifts the focus of my personal experience and turns it into a burden shared by many.
Nash was born and raised in Manhattan—I’m sure he has his own connection to 9/11. I can practically script the inevitable tit-for-tat exchange. He lost a cousin or an aunt. His uncle was a first responder. His dad worked in the Towers and made it out in time. His mom saw the planes hit. It took them hours to get home and he started thinking the worst.
But it’s a contest I always win. I’m the only person who lost both her parents that day. The newspapers ran stories about me for ages, turning me into a curiosity. An exhibit. Poor little orphan, Noelle.
Maybe one day I’ll go into detail. But not today. Not yet.
My stomach clenching, I squeeze my eyes closed and plunge in. “My parents died in an accident when I was little.” I hear Nash swear softly under his breath, his hands tightening on my legs. But I still can’t look at him. He’ll be staring at me with that horrible mix of pity and sympathy shining from his eyes and I’ll start to ugly cry.
“I’m sorry, Nixie. I didn’t realize . . .”
I suck in a tremulous breath and blow it out quickly, then shake my head. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”
“Yeah, but that’s the kind of thing you don’t ever move on from. No matter how long ago it happened, it’s always right there.”
It’s the understanding in Nash’s voice that makes me finally risk a glance at him. I see sympathy in his gaze, and the same understanding that was in his voice, but no pity.
His brother, Madison and Parker’s dad. Of course Nash understands. He lost his brother.
We fall silent for a few moments, and I can tell Nash is trying to decide where to go from here. But I still haven’t answered his question, and a deal’s a deal. “Anyway, my parents were both only children, and my only grandparent had Alzheimers. I was raised by my dad’s best friend and business partner. His name is Paul but I called him Pappi. Derrick is his son.”
Nash gently presses his thumbs into my instep and I close my eyes for a moment before continuing. “And Derrick has a gambling problem. My trust, which is all I have left from my parents, matures next year. Derrick wants the money.”
I can feel Nash weighing his final question. I think he must sense my reluctance to talk about my parents, or maybe his mind is naturally geared toward finance, because he asks, “If your trust doesn’t mature until next year, why is Derrick coming after you now?”
“Is that your third question?” I don’t want to talk about my trust, or the clause that’s turned me into a target.
“Yes.”
“Veto.”
He pulls my baby toe, cracking it.
“Ow—hey. Don’t be a sore negotiator. Next question.”
“Is this the first time he hurt you?” His hands still, waiting for my response.
“Yes,” I say. “Before, when he’s gotten mad, he always managed to hold himself in check. This time, he lost control. It was only for a minute. Less probably. But—” I shiver.
“But nothing. There’s no excuse for what he did. None.”
My eyes snap open and I see Nash’s horrified outrage, plain as day. He’s seething with it. And in that moment my heart stills. “Thanks,” I whisper, my throat dry.
“For what?”
“For being you, I guess.”
Nash is making me want to throw every one of my reservations right out the window. All my reasons for keeping my distance seem so petty and meaningless. Maybe being with him, even if it’s just for a little while, will be better than not at all.
Maybe.
Chapter 12
Nash
My eyes drop from Nixie’s glistening eyes to her trembling lips, and then to her reddened neck. This girl . . . I don’t even know what to do with her. Her story—losing her parents, both of them, so young. Raised not by relatives but by her father’s business partner. Seduced as a teenager by a man who should have treated her like a little sister, who should have been looking out for her, protecting her.
Instead he took advantage of her. Hurt her. Leaving her no choice but to run.
A surge of emotions wells within my chest. Respect. Lust. Concern. Interest. Affection.
God damn it—I like this girl. I respect this girl.
And I want to fuck her.
For me, that’s a dangerous combination. A combination that feels like the start of something more. Maybe even love.
And that’s impossible. Completely inconceivable.
I don’t do love. Why? Because the other half of love is loss.
And sure, some losses are inevitable . . . but without love they don’t have the power to devastate.
I was the one to tell Eva that Wyatt died. She crumpled to the ground and didn’t pull herself together until the twins were born. And even then, every one of their milestones—first smiles, first steps, birthdays, Christmases—was tinged with grief.
I’m no stranger to sob stories, but Nixie’s tale presses on my chest like a lead vest. I had to pry it out of her, and now I’m so far out on a limb I don’t know whether to jump down or scramble back to the tree’s trunk. My hands tighten on Nixie’s legs, holding on to her as I fight to keep myself under control. I want to stand up, pace the room, hit a wall. Find Derrick, hit him over and over until his face is unrecognizable—and he knows better than to come around Nixie ever again.
And as for Nixie . . . I want to kiss her. Hold her. Fuck her, slow and deep, hard and fast, until neither one of us can keep a rational thought in our heads. Until she doesn’t even remember Derrick’s existence.
What I should do is go to the gym. Run until my legs give out, punch any bag I can find, any man willing to punch back. The one thing I shouldn’t do, definitely shouldn’t do, is pull Nixie onto my lap, thread my fingers through that riot of hair streaming down her back like a goddamn parade, and stare into her bottomless golden gaze like I want to dive in headfirst.
But that’s exactly what I do.
And she doesn’t push me away.
It’s crazy to close the gap between us and kiss her like she’s the last source of oxygen on earth. But I do that, too.
And still, she doesn’t push me away.
Before I know it, Nixie’s hands are wrapped around my neck, her wrists pressing into my shoulders, her breath warming my lips, and her sweet sigh of surrender echoing in my ears.
Crazy. As. Fuuuuuck. This girl is going to be the goddamn end of me. The me that I knew. The me that I’ve become. Barricaded safely behind walls of steel and stone, looking out only through tinted windows.
As Nixie’s hips rock into me, I feel the cracks edging outward, fissures forming where her thighs press against mine, that little sound coming from the back of her throat making my cock drill against my zipper. He wants out. Wants in. Wants Nixie.
So do I.
My palms slide along her arched back, gliding along the curves of her ass, kneading her juicy flesh. Just enough to fill my hands, not an ounce more. It’s as if Nixie’s body was made to fit perfectly within my own.
With a savage groan, I yank her against me. So close there isn’t a single inch of her body that isn’t flush with mine. The bulge in my pants nestles perfectly within the apex of Nixie’s thighs. Instinctively seeking friction, her hips are moving ever so slightly, rolling, rocking, driving me fucking crazy.
I haven’t been this hard, this close to exploding in my goddamn pants, since I was fifteen, sneaking behind the bleachers with the head cheerleader just before a big game. The anticipation, the not knowing, the thrill of doing something forbidden with someone new—it’s intoxicating.
I’m already addicted.
I pull away, raking my gaze over Nixie’s pinkened, swollen lips. Her eyes are glazed and unfocused, pupils still dilated. With a ragged sigh, I rest my forehead against hers. “Nixie, if I do this, if we do this, I
’ll be no better than Derrick. Using you for my own ends.” She deserves more from me than just a fling.
Who invited the jackass with the moral compass?
Nixie’s breath hiccups, but she remains quiet.
Meanwhile, the jackass keeps talking. “I can’t stay here with you and not fuck you. I just can’t. But I need to know you’ll stay here. I don’t want you wandering off in the middle of the night. You’re safe here. And I need to know that you’re safe.”
She swallows heavily, her eyes holding mine captive. I can see the conflict in them. The clash between what her mind knows and what her body wants. “Under one condition.”
“You want to negotiate again? Now?” My lips twist, my eyes searching her face for clues. What more can Nixie possibly ask of me? What more can I give?
“Lie with me,” she says. And I can feel her need for closeness, for physical comfort, as if it’s a tangible thing. Maybe because I feel it, too. “Just for a little while. Just until I fall asleep.”
Me. Nixie. In bed, together. No, no, no. Not that. Anything but that.
I take a deep breath, considering the alternatives. Imagining what it would be like to hold Nixie in my arms for even a little while longer. “Under one condition.”
Her laugh tickles my nerve endings. “What?”
“That question you vetoed— I want an answer. Why is Derrick coming after you now, before your inheritance vests?”
Nixie lifts her head and slides off my lap to stand in front of me. “Come,” she holds out her hand. “I’ll tell you if you lie with me.”
I stand, allowing myself to be led into the bedroom. This is usually a place I feel confident, completely in control. How many women have I fucked in this very bed? Sex is like a science for me, each body a new experiment. My ability to achieve the desired results is never in doubt. Quivering, shaking, squealing, bliss—I always deliver.
But now, as Nixie turns her back to me, pulling a lacy concoction through her shirtsleeves and letting it fall to the floor by her bare feet with the cutest pink-tipped toes I’ve ever seen, my control hangs by a thread. “Nixie,” I groan.