The Club: Ace

by Jenna Elliot

  “Ask the bride to dance, would you?” I ask. “Those two are stuck together like Gorilla Glue.”

  Jax laughs. “Come on, man. Don’t begrudge them one night of marital bliss. Morning’s coming all too soon.”

  Now I laugh. “Damned straight.”

  Jax separates man and wife, and I step in to claim Ethan before someone else gets him.

  “Come on, groom.” I say, directing him back to the bar. “Have one on me. My stock.”

  “Cheers,” he says, looking content.

  Here’s hoping he still looks so content when the sun comes up. A year from now . . . Shit. Fingers crossed.

  “I walked by and heard you talking to Emme’s brother.” I get straight to the point. “Everything okay with her?”

  If he finds my interest out of character, he doesn’t show it. “Her brother wanted to know if Mia had more information than he did. I think he just wants to make sure she’s safe.”

  “Why wouldn’t Emme be safe?”

  He eyes me over the rim of the glass. “She didn’t tell you about the break-in?”

  My every muscle galvanizes. “No.”

  Ethan shrugs. “I just heard about it ten minutes ago myself. Apparently, after she left the club last week, she got home to find her place trashed. She may have seen the suspect. The cops are investigating.”

  “They don’t think it’s random.” Not a question.

  Ethan sets his glass on the edge of the bar. “Apparently not. Some shit was written on the wall. I don’t know what it was, but it made the whole thing personal.”

  “Anything taken?”

  Ethan shakes his head. “Sounded like they trashed the place, though.”

  A couple of things hit me at once. None of them good. I ask a few more questions. But Ethan doesn’t know much more, and my head has already leaped into fifth gear. As soon as Jax returns Mia, she takes off with Ethan, and I head for Emme.

  “Please excuse us,” I tell the couple she’s talking to and direct her away without a backward glance.

  Emme frowns, but doesn’t resist. “Ace, what’s—”

  “Let’s say our goodbyes to the bride and groom. We may not get another chance. The helicopter’s aboard, and they’ll be swarmed soon with rice.”

  Emme relaxes and gives a chuckle, looking sensual and lush. I can tell she’s still riding the edge of pleasure.

  “No rice on your pretty yacht, Ace. Not a good combination with the sea air. We’re doing bubbles. Lots of bubbles.”

  “Great. Soap and sea air. Sounds like a potential liability.”

  She just rolls her eyes, but I end the conversation, hurrying her along because I’m not in the mood. I want her alone. I want to hear her version of what happened in her apartment, and I’m done with all the mingling. Done with the waiting for answers.

  “Let’s go below deck—”

  “Before the bubbles?” She looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “We have to see Mia and Ethan off.”

  “Everyone will be on deck. They won’t notice if we’re not there. They won’t have a clue.”

  “I’m her maid of honor.”

  I don’t have a response. She seems to think being the maid of honor has some obligation attached to it.

  She considers me for a long moment, then gives a huff. “All right. Give me time to say goodbye to everyone. My family won’t leave unless I do. They’ll come looking for me.”

  I can do that, so we track down her parents and her brothers who, of course, are on opposite ends of the room, I’m forced to say my goodbyes as well. Then some acquaintances from the club catch us, and we’re forced to make even more bullshit small talk.

  I’m impatient, and don’t care if I seem rude, although I suppose as captain and host . . . Out of character for me, for sure, but I grow more annoyed with every word, every goddamned smile, every fucking forced laugh.

  By the time we make it to the bride and groom, I’m edgy as hell. Emme hugs Mia, and I stand aside so they can talk. I suppose Emme thinks she’s hurrying the conversation along, but I consider turning the remote control setting to High, just to get her moving.

  I don’t. If I bring her to her knees in public, I’ll waste more time making excuses, and her family will never leave if they think something’s wrong with her.

  My luck continues to suck. When the emcee announces the bride and groom’s departure, we miss our chance to vanish.

  We get swept up with the crowd, unable to break away from Ethan and Mia, who tightly holds Emme’s hand. I’m forced to step aside and watch the crowd blow bubbles and scream well wishes over the grinding of the chopper’s blades.

  When Emme finally returns to me, she waves goodbye with tears glinting in her eyes. We watch the chopper rise from the pad, then head east toward the Bahamas.

  And I’m officially done waiting. The stewards can see to the guests while the yacht returns to the dock and the other guests debark. I drag Emme to the main salon, and kick the door shut behind us.

  I hit the intercom. “Fred.”

  The first mate answers. “Yes, sir.”

  “After our guests are gone, cruise the intercoastal. Have us back to the dock by ten a.m.”

  “Yes, sir. Would you like anything brought to your salon?”

  I rake my gaze over Emme.

  “I have everything I need.” I flick off the intercom.

  She stares at me, and I can see her concern. She reacts to my intensity, so in tune with my moods. The perfect sub.

  Just the thought sends me to the bar where I pour myself yet another scotch. I upend the bottle over another glass, but she shakes her head, “Just water, please. I’m thirsty after all that dancing.”

  I reach for a bottled water. “Why didn’t you tell me someone tossed your apartment?”

  Sinking down onto the arm of a chair, she looks surprised. “How did you hear?”

  “Ethan.”

  She frowns. “I didn’t think Mia had told him yet.”

  Secrets already. So much for marital bliss. “She was talking with your brother about it when I walked by. Ethan was there, too, so I asked him about what happened.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Sounds like high school. Only my brother. Nothing’s sacred with him.”

  “Is the break-in supposed to be secret?”

  “The police are investigating,” she says as if that’s a valid explanation.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She only shrugs lightly. “No real reason, Ace. It just didn’t come up in conversation.”

  She obviously thinks that explanation is reasonable, too. But I’m startled by how much her calm gets under my skin. “How does a break-in ever come up in normal conversation?”

  Now she looks startled. My intensity, maybe. I’m bleeding it all over the place. I take another deep swallow of scotch, and hope the smooth heat takes away the edge of my mood.

  “It honestly didn’t occur to me you’d be interested. That’s my real life, and everything I do with you isn’t.”

  There’s a big part of me relieved she understands the difference between life in the club and life outside. But that calm reason is all inside my head, because I feel agitated, almost . . . angry.

  “This is out of the norm, Emme. Are you okay?” I demand.

  “It’s been a tough week, but thank you for asking.”

  Maybe it’s the distance in her tone. Maybe it’s the implication in her statement. Like she can’t imagine why I’d be interested. I don’t know, but my reaction singes rational thought, more quickly than the scotch can dowse it. “I ask a civil question and you’re surprised?”

  “I just didn’t think you cared about my personal life. You don’t tell me anything about yours.”

  I don’t dignify that with a response. “Did it occur to you whoever tossed your place may have followed you from the club?”

  She only frowns.

  “Didn’t you think a car was following you another night when you left the club?” I say
.

  “Ethan by way of Mia again?”

  I nod, and she sets the water onto a coaster with careful deliberation.

  “Please tell me they weren’t discussing where I was coming from. My brother can easily find out what kind of place Command Performance is. My parents will have heart attacks.”

  She drops her face into her hands and shudders. There’s no missing her worry, but I don’t give a shit about her family drama. I’m only interested in the details of the fucking break-in. “Do you think someone followed you from the club?” I ask.

  She doesn’t reply.

  “Emme, I need to know.”

  Lifting her head, understanding appears to dawn. “Has there been a problem before? I should probably tell the police—”

  “No.”

  “Then why would you ask that?”

  She doesn’t understand. And I can’t explain without revealing the past. I never share that. Never even think about it.

  When I can help it.

  “No. There has never been any trouble like that with the club. But if you noticed someone following you from there, I need to know.”

  “I didn’t mention the club to the police.”

  Her dirty little secret. The thought spikes my mood more. “What did they say?”

  “They asked about men I’m involved with.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “You. And Jason.”

  “Who the hell is Jason?”

  “An ex who wants me back.”

  Christ almighty, I don’t believe I’m even having this conversation. I see Emme one night a week for four weeks. Why do I care who she’s involved with?

  It’s not like I don’t know Emme has a life outside of the club. I know this. Even if I hadn’t noticed her myself, I pulled her records when she applied for level two candidacy. There was a break in her membership of five or six months.

  Emme could be rebounding with level two. Wouldn’t be the first time a member has. Thrusting my fingers through my hair, I take a deep breath, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I ask, “Are you taking him back?”

  “You’ve kind of spoiled other men for me.” Sliding off the arm of the couch, she pats the cushion beside her. “Can’t we at least hold hands while we talk?”

  For one surreal moment, I can only stare while my brain twists around her request.

  Hold hands while we discuss the ex?

  Surreal, hell. I’m in a fucking other dimension. And every firing brain cell in my head rebels. Not because I don’t want to sit with her. Because I do.

  That realization comes at me sideways. I want to sit next to this hot little number and hear all about how I’ve ruined her for other guys. This babe whose ass virginity I took because I wanted to stake my claim. This babe whose parents just interrogated me like I was some teenage prom date. This babe whose apartment was ransacked after she left my club . . .

  Because I singled her out?

  Wouldn’t be the first time for that, either.

  “No. We are not going to hold fucking hands.” The voice coming out of my mouth is a stranger’s.

  Emme looks startled, and for a moment, she just stares. I back up against the bar. Minimum safe distance.

  “Listen to me. If anyone bothers you, you come to me. You call me before you even call the cops. Do you understand?”

  She levels her gaze at me, as if trying to see all the things I won’t even admit to myself.

  My dirty little secrets.

  “Are we clear?” I say to prompt her. “I can’t help you if I don’t know there’s a problem.”

  “We’re clear, Ace,” she says softly.

  And I can see in her melting expression she forms her own interpretation about why I might need to protect her, about what I need to protect her from.

  Of course fresh-faced Emme looks like she’s thinking about Cinderella and happy endings. She has no fucking clue. She can’t know I’m poison to anyone I care about. Fucking toxic. So, I can’t care. About her. Or anyone.

  And because she doesn’t know, she does the most dangerous thing in the world . . . She pushes up from the couch and heads straight toward me.

  Every drop of blood rushes to my dick. I feel hot and cold all at once. I know I should say something to stop her in her tracks, to send her out the door and over the gangplank. That’s best for her. And me.

  But I can’t seem to force any words through my constricted throat, not what I need to say to wipe that melting expression off her face. Because I’m too fucking selfish. I don’t want her to go. I want to sink my dick deep inside her and ride her hard, get myself back to familiar ground again.

  But I can’t touch her. Not yet. I need distance to manage this unfamiliar yearning. A few minutes to rein in my uncharacteristic lack of control. Just some distance.

  I hold up my hand, stop her from crossing those last few inches, because if she touches me, I’ll be gone. I know it.

  “Dance for me, Emme,” I say in someone else’s voice. “Take off that dress, and dance for me.”

  24

  Emme

  ACE WANTS ME. He is turned on by my dance. Maybe even as much as I’m turned on dancing for him. I see the need in his burning gaze, the stark look chiseling his face. I feel his need in the intensity of the moment, the intimacy.

  But I don’t allow myself to think. I don’t want to be mistaken. I can’t bear to be mistaken. And that’s so wrong.

  Every warning I’ve ever heard about Ace clamors out the music in my head. I can’t think I might somehow be special to him. I know that. But I don’t feel it.

  So I do the only thing I know to do . . . I dance. I shove aside all those dangerous thoughts, and I tease him with my body. I want him to burn for me.

  Pivoting slowly, I shimmy out of my dress, unable to face the heat of his gaze, needing a distraction from the hope that makes me ache inside, so much more than physical need.

  I concentrate on the feel of the air caressing my skin. I unsnap my bra. I let it fall away, an erotic move that makes me feel like a seductress. I sway each muscle to the imaginary music, focusing my motion to entice his attention down my body, each part pulled into the rhythm.

  Swirling my hips, I finally turn around, covering my breasts with my hands, letting my nipples peep through my fingers. I undulate my hips, part my thighs gently, and watch his mouth tighten.

  His interest enflames me. I feel as if I have power over him . . . Until he kicks on the vibrations of the sex toys. My knees buckle.

  And he lunges. Seizing opportunity, he scoops me into his arms. I gasp aloud as my bare skin comes up against him, a sound that startles the quiet.

  I feel very safe with Ace holding me—even though I have no idea what he wants. Leaning back, I memorize the proud tilt of his head, the strong jaw, the fierce look in his gaze that is laced with . . . I don’t know.

  I only know what I want.

  My heart throbs in my ears, drowning out the quiet. I have never quite seen him this way before. So raw. Primal. Animalistic.

  Protective?

  Yes. Definitely protective.

  He carries me to the bed. He sets me down gently, and I stretch back onto the plush pillows. Ace strips away his clothes, revealing tanned skin and solid muscle. Such a commanding man. Such a beautiful man.

  He never takes his gaze off me.

  I half expect him to pounce again, but instead, he lies on his side beside me, props his head in his hand. Ever so lightly, he runs his fingertips between my belly and breasts.

  The vibrations between my legs make it difficult to hold still. But I don’t want this moment to end.

  His gaze alone makes my nipples hard.

  “You are so responsive,” he whispers, then leans over. His lips touch mine, ever so gently.

  My emotional wants and my physical needs collide in that instant with his mouth poised so tenderly against mine, a whisper of touch that stokes so much more than the flames between my legs.

  He’s re
aching into places he has no business going. Not Ace, the man who doesn’t do feelings. Ace, the man who makes me yearn for the impossible.

  He toys with me. Tastes me. Sips from my lips.

  And I steel myself against the way I go molten inside. Not my pussy, but my heart. I remind myself that me wanting more doesn’t mean he’s capable of giving me what I want. I know that. Oh, how I know that.

  So, I take what I can get. I open my mouth, drink in his kisses, imprint the feel of his lips against mine in memory.

  And then he’s gone, reaching for the ice bucket on the nightstand. “Close your eyes, Emme.”

  I do as I’m told. And I wait. And wait. I hear the tinkle of ice. I feel the bed sway with his weight. And when his lips finally close over my nipple, his mouth is hot and cold. Fire and ice. He’s got an ice cube in his mouth.

  I would leap off the bed from the dual sensations, but I can’t. He has me trapped. By my nipple. By the vibrations between my thighs.

  All I want to do is roll against him, tug him over me, into me. Instead, I lie there and take what he gives me.

  He gives a lot.

  I didn’t know it was possible to be hot and cold. For my nipple to become the center of my consciousness.

  “Ace,” I whimper.

  “Mmm.”

  “I’m burning.”

  Leaning over, he gives the fire and ice treatment to my other nipple. I start to pant. Despite my resolve, I run my hands over his back and shoulders. His skin is so warm, so firm.

  I thread my hands into his hair. Try to yank him onto me. And he bites my nipple.

  I gasp, and he sucks away the tiny sting, reminding me he is in charge, that I’m there to give him whatever he wants. Who would have thought that would be both so easy and so difficult?

  I think I can’t stand another moment, and he fists his hands into my hair.

  “Look at me, Emme.”

  I open my eyes. And melt. I see my need reflected in his expression. So primal. Fierce.

  But his hands tenderly curl my hair from my face. Our gazes lock. And in that moment, my heart hammers, and I can no longer avoid that I have feelings for him.