Undefeated bare-knuckle boxing champion.
Plus a Navy SEAL brother.
And Bast looked like he could tear some shit apart if he had to.
Rem and Ram and I could do some major damage, but I was realizing I needed to think twice the next time I showed up drunk and looking for trouble. Those boys could bring it, a fact I would do well to remember before my arrogant ass started writing checks I couldn’t cash.
Honesty. Huh. I was good at honesty of a certain kind, but not in the way Bax meant. I was good at pointing out other people’s shit, but not so good at pointing out my own.
What did I want with Kitty?
Well, for one, to get her naked and make her scream. That part hadn’t changed.
But I wanted to see more than frustration in her eyes. I wanted to see more than anger, more than confusion, more than mere lust.
What I hadn’t told Kitty when she’d asked if I’d ever been in love was that I was pretty hung up on Jenna, the Hooters waitress. When I went back a year or so later to look her up I actually found her. She had quit Hooters, gotten a cosmetologist’s license, and was dating a fancy-ass pretty boy lawyer. I’d pined after that chick for a solid year, putting in work and thinking I’d show up, sweep her off her feet, and prove who I really was. She’d smiled at me, patted me on the cheek, and told me I was three months too late, but I got an A for effort.
That had hurt and I had sworn off having feelings for women ever since.
So, what did I want with Kitty?
Nope. Too drunk and too maudlin to go there. I wanted things I’d never had, couldn’t have, and would never have.
See? Sappy, pussy, feelings bullshit. No thanks.
I’ll deal with this bullshit later.
7
Kitty
* * *
Izzy had been right—my relationship with Tom had been kind of boring. I’d loved him, and he’d loved me. We spent eight years together, lived together for five. Things had gotten…complacent, I guess.
But I’d started to want more—more than just living together. I’d hinted at marriage, and more than hinted. I pointed out locations that would have been good wedding venues. Told him my ring size, and what kind of diamond cut and setting I liked. He’d ignored it all.
Finally, I’d flat out asked him if he intended to propose to me. He’d admitted he knew that’s what I wanted, but he just wasn’t sure it was what he wanted, even though he did love me and care for me. After some go-rounds and arguments and lots of crying on my part, and even some on his, we’d agreed the best thing was to break up, since we couldn’t see eye-to-eye on something so important as marriage and children.
That had been over a year ago.
What had been wrong with me that Tom hadn’t wanted to marry me?
Deep down, I was scared to admit it that I knew I wouldn’t get what I wanted from Tom. I’d wanted more. I wanted him to chase me a little. Show me real hunger, not just… “Hey babe, wanna have sex?” Not just grope for me in the dark. Not just kiss me a little, paw at my tits, push in, come two minutes later, and go to sleep.
Not that that’s all we ever had. He would get a little crazy sometimes, but not often, and the sex that I found fulfilling was usually instigated by me.
Ugh. Why was I thinking about Tom?
Because it was easier than thinking about Roman?
Roman challenged everything I thought I knew about myself, everything I thought I wanted for myself and from a man, and from a relationship.
He was forcing me to admit to myself that I liked the way he dominated me and made me admit things I found scary. I liked the way he looked at me—like I was prey and he was the lion. I even liked the arrogance—a little, in a weird way that I didn’t understand. I just…I didn’t know what to do with him. How to handle what he made me feel, what he made me want.
I knew I’d reacted poorly to his naming the bar after me, but I also think I was justified in being pissed. It was an odd thing for him to do, and it still makes me feel uncomfortable. But at the same time, it is the tiniest little bit flattering. But still weird.
Overall, I just wish…
I wish I’d gotten the chance to explore more of how he makes me feel, on a purely physical level. Yes, yes, yes, I know—there’s an emotional component I’m being too immature to think about. But I just don’t want to like him. I don’t want to want him the way I do.
I’m dreaming about him. Wet dreams, weird dreams, romantic dreams. I see his swagger, the cunning, mischievous, wicked glint in his sky blue eyes, the power in his body, the mastery in the way he touched me that night.
God, that night…
Darn it. I have to stop thinking about him. It’s been a week—if a man like him doesn’t renew the chase after a week, he’s given up. Which, admittedly, doesn’t seem like him.
Gah.
Stop already! I needed to do something to keep busy. Maybe go for a run and wait for the girls to get home from work. I bet they’d like to drink wine and watch rom-coms tonight.
My buzzer went off at that moment, startling me out of my rumination—I headed over to the intercom, my heart palpitating at the thought that it might be him.
“Hello? Who is it?” I asked.
“Delivery for Kitty Quinn.”
Darn it. Wait—am I disappointed or relieved? A little of both maybe.
“That’s me,” I said. “Bring it up.” I hit the button and heard the front door open, and thump closed.
A minute later there was a knock on my door. The young man on the other side wasn’t from any of the usual delivery places, and he wasn’t holding a plain old box, or even a dozen roses. He was holding a garment bag and an envelope.
“You’re Kitty Quinn?” he asked, and then offered me the bag and the envelope.
I nodded. “Yeah. Who—who’s this from?”
He grinned at me. “He said you’d ask that, and he said my answer should be, ‘who else would it be from?’”
I sucked in a breath. “Roman?”
The delivery man—boy, really—was barely twenty, blond, with a scraggly goatee and tattoos on his hands. “I dunno what his name was. Huge dude, like…like Dolph Lundgren meets Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
“You didn’t ask his name?” I asked, incredulous.
“He handed me those items, told me your name and address, and paid me cash. My job is to deliver things, not ask questions.”
I rolled my eyes, accepting the bag and the envelope. “I’ve never had a delivery like this,” I said, hesitantly. “Do I tip you?”
His eager, earnest grin only widened. “Nah, he took care of that, too.” He waved at me as he turned away. “Have a good night, ma’am.”
“You too.”
I closed the door, relocked it, and brought the bag and envelope into my room. I wish I could say I opened the envelope first, because that’s the polite thing to do, but that’d be a lie. I unzipped the garment bag and slowly withdrew the dress inside.
I actually inhaled audibly. It was jade green, short, with a plunging neckline and back, and would cling to me like cellophane. I knew just by looking at it that it would fit me perfectly, which only made me all the more curious. The question of how he knew my exact dress size was easy to answer—Izzy. All he’d have had to do was show up, tell her he wanted to surprise me, and she’d tell him anything he wanted to know.
I held the dress up to my body and yep; for sure it was my size. I’d look pretty sexy in this.
I set the dress aside, poking in the bag to make sure I wasn’t missing anything. Thank god I did, because there were matching shoes—strappy, sexy sandals with a wedge heel. And a little black box tucked in at the very bottom, containing tiny but beautiful diamond earrings.
Seriously?
What was this?
Time to open the envelope.
Inside was a piece of ivory linen cardstock, blank on one side, with heavy, angular, neat, masculine handwriting on the other.
* *
*
Kitty,
* * *
I’ve handled this whole thing all wrong, and I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you, please. If you’re up for a little surprise, a car will be outside waiting for you in thirty minutes. I figured you might need some time to get ready. The car will be a white Lexus, and the driver’s name is Tony. He’ll know you by name, and he’ll bring you to me.
I know this is where I tell you something reassuring about there not being any expectations connected to this, but that wouldn’t be true. Kitten, there are DEFINITELY expectations. So go into this eyes open, okay? Give me a chance.
—Roman
* * *
Nerves fluttered in my belly—not just a few butterflies, but a whole kaleidoscope. There were definitely expectations. I wouldn’t have believed him if he’d tried to say there weren’t—that would have been disingenuous of him at best. Trust Roman to be forthright about this, at least.
There was no question in my mind whether I would go—that was a no-brainer. A gorgeous man sends you a dress, heels, jewelry, and a driver, you go along with it. Plus, I was dying of curiosity.
Thirty minutes wasn’t enough time to get ready though. Not by a long shot.
Oh boy.
I put the card in the envelope, set it on my bed, and stripped out of my clothes. I put on my sexiest lingerie—a set Tom had actually gotten me, if you want the truth. Regardless of where the set came from, it was still high-end lingerie that did amazing things for my cleavage and backside. Hair and makeup was next. I rarely did more with my hair than a bun or ponytail, but if there was ever a time to use my curling iron this was it. I put my hair in tight ringlets, which dropped down into looser spirals due to the length and weight of my hair. I left a few wisps loose around my face. Simple makeup—some foundation, eye shadow, color on my lips, mascara.
I was still working on my makeup when the door opened and Izzy and Juneau came in together—they almost always did, as they worked on the same street and got out at the same time. They found me in the bathroom, panicking because I couldn’t get my mascara to go on right, and I was trying for a smoky eye that wasn’t too obvious, but it wasn’t working.
Izzy and Juneau stood at the bathroom door, staring at me.
“Um, Kitty? What’s going on?” Juneau asked.
“Duh, girl—she’s got a date.” Izzy’s voice gave her away.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” I asked.
“What was me?” Izzy asked, endeavoring to sound innocent.
“You told him my dress size.”
She shrugged. “And shoe size, and the fact that you prefer simple round diamonds to anything big or ostentatious.” She peered at my reflection in the mirror. “Um, what’s going on with your makeup?”
I sighed. “It’s not working.”
Izzy winced. “Yeah, that’s not working at all. You look like a raccoon trying out nineties-style makeup.”
“I don’t do makeup that often, so sue me.”
“Take all that off. I’ll do it for you.” Izzy twisted to look into my bedroom. “So what did he send you?”
I waved a hand at my room. “Take a look. He’s not subtle, that’s for sure.”
I used makeup wipes to erase my failed attempt while Izzy and Juneau checked out the dress—and the note, judging by the paper rustling sounds.
“That dress is amazing,” Izzy said, excited. “It’ll look incredible on you.”
“I’ll look like a skank going to prom is what I’ll look like.”
“Honey. That dress will make his cock rock hard and keep it that way without you having to move a muscle. You’ll be the sexiest thing in Alaska in that dress, no joke.”
Juneau sighed. “It’s a beautiful dress. Not subtle, and definitely picked out by a man, but you will look pretty stunning in it.”
“He just appreciates her form, is all,” Izzy said. “And you’re welcome for telling him that you look best in green.”
“Did you warn him about being careful with me?” I asked, pointedly. “Did you tell him if he hurt me, you’d find him and hurt him?”
“Nope!” she sang. “I told him that you were scared of getting into a relationship, in desperate need of amazing sex, and that you’re the most genuinely kind person I’ve ever met. Except with him, apparently, since he really does bring out the worst in you. But that’s only because he scares you. Which is good. If it doesn’t scare you a little, it’s not real enough.”
“Isadora Styles, you did NOT say that to him,” I said, turning to face her, incredulous.
She nodded, winking at me and clucking her tongue. “I sure did, girlfriend.” She patted my hand. “I also told him that if he messed you up or hurt your feelings again, I’d cut his balls off and make shepherd’s pie out of them and feed them to him through a straw, because I’d also break every single one of his stupidly perfect teeth.”
“Izzy.”
She shut me up by bringing lip stain up to my mouth. “You really think I wouldn’t have your back?”
“Did you really tell him I was in desperate need of amazing sex?” I said, smacking my lips together after she applied the color.
“Well, you are.” She met my gaze in the mirror. “Is there a word stronger than desperate?”
“I’m not desperate.”
She sighed. “I didn’t say you were desperate, I said you were in desperate need of amazing sex. Big difference. You’re not in a dry spell; you’re choosing not to have sex. You could have basically any man you wanted without effort. You’re just scared. Gun-shy.”
“It’s not about sex, Izzy, it’s about—”
“The idea of a relationship,” she cut in. “I know. But after eight years with Tom, you don’t need a relationship. You need a man who will show you what it’s like to be truly lusted after.” Her eyes were unapologetic as she cut through me with her words. “Tom never lusted after you. He loved you—as in he cared for you. Which is great. But he never lusted after you. Not once. I never saw that, and I was with you guys all the time.”
“And with this guy it’s the opposite,” I said. “He may lust after me but he doesn’t give a crap about me as a person.”
“You don’t know that,” Izzy said, tossing my eye shadow back onto the counter. “There. Finished.”
Juneau appeared, leaning into the bathroom as Izzy finished my makeup. “The driver is here.”
I eyed myself in the mirror. “You are so much better at that than I am,” I said, marveling.
She’d done my makeup as I’d envisioned but failed to achieve—minimal, just enough to make my eyes look wider, brighter, a little sultry, with some pop to my lips and color on my cheeks.
She leaned against me. “I put makeup on every day, hon. You put it on, like, once a month.”
“I don’t see the point of doing it for work, and that’s pretty much all I’ve been doing lately.”
“Yeah, well, that’s a different conversation, sweetie,” Izzy said, grabbing the dress from off of my bed. “Get your sexy ass into this dress so you can go get yourself a man.” She held it up, found the zipper on the left side and opened it, handed it to me, and then stopped, laughing. “Kit-Kat, honey, did you even look at the dress?” she asked.
I frowned at her. “Yes, why?”
She gestured at me. “Because this is a plunging neckline and you’re wearing a bra.”
I bit my lip. “I can’t wear a bra with that dress?”
She shook her head. “Nope. Really, you shouldn’t wear anything under it.”
My breath lodged in my lungs. “I don’t know if I can do that.” I eyed the dress, and then myself in the mirror. “Plus, I feel sexy in this set. If I wear the dress naked underneath, I’ll be self-conscious, on top of being worried my boobs will fly out.”
Izzy laughed. “Well you’d wear boob tape, obviously.”
“Boob tape?”
Juneau laughed. “Yeah, it’s a thing.”
“I don’t have boob tape.”
/> Izzy vanished into her room and reappeared with a roll of clear tape. “This isn’t the kind of tape that’s supposed to work in place of a bra—it’s not support. It’s just meant to keep your tits attached to the dress so they don’t go Free Willy on you.”
“So I’ll be saggy, but they won’t pop out unexpectedly.” I sighed. “Great.”
Juneau rolled her eyes at me. “Kitty, don’t ridiculous. For how big your boobs are, they’re super perky. Like, it’s against nature and I’m a little jealous.”
I rolled my eyes back at her. “Oh shush, June—yours aren’t saggy either.” Reluctantly, I slipped the bra off and hung it on the doorknob.
“No, but they’re not as perky as yours.” She stood behind me and tapped the undersides of my breasts. “Look at these things. Perky as an eighteen-year-old’s.”
I rolled my eyes again, shrugging away from her touch. “You’re being ridiculous. They’re not that perky.”
“Yes they are, so shut up,” Izzy said, holding out the dress for me.
I stepped in, tugged it up, and shrugged into the teeny little straps, and Izzy, bold as you please, reached in, grabbed my tits, and adjusted them inside the deep plunging neckline. She peeled sections of double-sided tape off the roll and affixed them to my breasts just to the inside of my areolae, then zipped the dress, and pressed the fabric against my breasts so the tape stuck to the dress and my skin, keeping the edges of the dress in place. I stood in front of the mirror adjusting my cleavage and the lay of the dress against my curves.
“Oh…dear…god,” I breathed. “I look like a trollop.”
Izzy cackled. “Trollop? Who says trollop? What are you, a ninety-year-old grandma? Jesus criminy, Kit-Kat.” She tugged the neckline down and plumped my breasts up, making sure the tape was still sticking in place. “You look…honestly, you look hotter than I’ve ever seen you look, babe.”
Juneau grinned. “You really do. He won’t be able to keep his eyes off you.”
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