His ragged breaths fall against my neck as he nuzzles the crevice.
“No worries, babe,” he whispers between kisses. “I’ll take care of you.”
I wiggle and motion for him to let me down.
“This isn’t right,” I say.
Devlin helps me to my feet and I fall against him, resting against his heaving chest and thumping pulse.
He encapsulates me with his arms.
“I’m not out to just hit it and quit it,” he explains, placing a kiss on my head. “I have never met a woman as caring and wise and as beautiful as you.”
I look into his eyes.
“Then there is no rush,” I remind him. “Good things come to those who wait. You agreed to my thirty-day trial period.”
He punctuates his compliance by drawing in a long breath.
I step out of his embrace and fix my clothing. He tucks and straightens his clothing as well.
“If that’s what it takes, then I’ll wait,” he exhales with a shake of his head.
I gather my emotions and willpower before exiting.
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Also By Danielle Slater
MADE
A Bad Boy Romance
The club reeks of luxurious perfumes, sex, and a light overlay of sweat. The odors swirl below my nose. I take a sip of my martini and let the icy liquid trickle slowly over my tongue. I think about taking a man home, putting him in my mouth, feeling his girth and his heat. I let my gaze wander across the crowded space, skipping from one expensive suit to another. A few of the men fill out the sleek cuts of their silk and wool suits with massive shoulders and impressive pecs. My eyes linger on them. I have a weakness for big men who make me feel petite. What would it be like if I wore the red shoes? What kind of man would play a game like this?
That’s when I suddenly understand: this deal must appeal to men who have everything, men who can buy anyone. They don’t merely want a night with a young and beautiful woman. They can have that easily; probably have more opportunities than they have time for. The staid business address in New Jersey offers an experience, something unique; one they can’t have anywhere else or with anyone else.
What would that mean for the young woman who slides her feet into a pair of special shoes?
Butterflies in my stomach. . .
If I were wearing the red shoes right now, he’d be here in the club, somewhere, watching. Would he show himself to me right away? Or make me wait? Will he stalk me like a hunter only to take me without warning. . .
My nipples go tight imagining my fantasy mystery man and if he’s wondering how my tits will feel in his hands, how my pussy will get wet for him. Will he get hard just looking at me? Heat rushes from my pussy up my belly and across my chest.
“I don’t know what they put in that drink, but oh girl, it must be good.” Caylee’s words jolt me from my reverie.
I toss her a sheepish grin and realize I’m blushing. She grins right back at me. “Admit it, you were thinking about sex, the really, really hot kind; the kind you dream about; the kind you need. Am I right?” When I don’t answer, she waves a hand at me. “Oh, don’t bother. I know I’m right.”
It’s my turn to shrug as I try to act casual. Fat chance of pulling that one off when I’m feeling anything but casual.
Reality check, Brooke. You’re too cautious to take a risk. Nobody delivered expensive red shoes to your door and no one in this place has looked twice at you, not to mention the fact you’re way too practical and conservative to show up at a random office in Jersey and sign a freaking contract.
Try telling that to my body. The ache between my legs is still pumping sexual energy into my veins like a drug. I could probably get off if a man dragged his gaze over me too long.
Which is pretty sad when you think about it.
Caylee laughs at my obvious discomfort and kicks back the last of her drink. Her eyes are bright; her cheeks flushed. I’m about to suggest we head down to the main floor when a guy in a dark suit comes up behind her. He’s there only long enough to slip something into her hand before disappearing again into the crowd.
She stills, her eyes going wide. “This is it!” She opens her palm, revealing a burner phone. A red light blinks and then a line of text marches across the screen. After studying it, she holds the phone, so I can see the screen. It looks like a regular incoming call message, except there’s a red button for accept and a blue button for decline.
She flips the phone around and her finger hovers over the red button.
Fear clutches at my throat. I have this feeling something bad is going to happen. “Wait! This is too strange. You don’t know enough. You haven’t even seen the guy or talked to him. That’s not a real choice.”
She shakes her head slowly, seeming a little dazed, maybe from finishing her drink too fast. “I already signed the contract. I can’t say no. I have to do this.”
“But wait—”
Before I can grab the phone away from her, she stabs the red button. We both freeze, staring at the screen. For a few long seconds, nothing happens. Then a green text message pops up: Report to the east door. Mr. Daniels will escort you from that point.
She turns in a circle. “Which way is east?”
While I’m trying to get my bearings, a tall guy who looks like an MMA fighter stuffed into an expensive dark suit appears at Caylee’s elbow.
“Miss Bennett?” he inquires. He’s not wearing a nametag, but I assume he’s the Mr. Daniels from the text message.
She half turns, staring up at him while at the same time reaching back toward me and shoving the burner phone into my hand. I take it and manage not to fumble. Fortunately, Mr. Daniels is preoccupied with Caylee and doesn’t appear to notice what she’s done. His voice is deep, and he’s speaking too softly for me to hear, but Caylee hangs on every word.
The guy finishes his spiel and turns to go. Before following him, Caylee pivots quickly, pulls me into a fierce hug, and whispers into my ear, “Hold onto the phone for me, okay?”
Then she’s off. I watch her follow the big man across the club until they pass through a door marked with gold letters, VIP.
I shove the phone into my bag while muttering to myself how ridiculous the whole situation is, including my irrational fears, which have no basis in reality. The truth is that my friend is going on an adventure and will probably have fabulous sex and come home a whole lot richer. Even Samantha is probably having a better time than I am—assuming she was telling the truth about spending the night at her friend’s house. I should call and check up on her, but I want to trust her; I need to trust her. So I’ve told myself I’m going to do just that until she gives me a solid reason to do otherwise. Meanwhile, I’m standing here like I’m 24-going-on-80 and worried bad things will happen if I stay out past my bedtime.
Fuck that.
I decide Caylee is right. I need a night out, and I’m here. Why waste an amazing dress or a hot club filled with even hotter guys?
Oh my, check out that one. . .
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About Danielle Slater
Danielle Slater writes rom
ance stories involving the men we hate to love and love to hate: the bad boys.
She has always been drawn to them, whether she wanted to be or not, and loves to tell stories about their irresistible natures and, of course, the heroines that capture their hearts.
She hopes to become a full time writer, and currently resides in San Francisco as a secretary for a small law firm. Her goal is to entertain, and she hopes you enjoy each and every story along the way.
About Nora Lane
Nora Lane spends her time with two amazing children and one amazing husband. She appreciates them all dearly, especially when they allow her to close the door and sink into the world of telling stories.
She lives with her family in Northern California where they hope to someday have a small farm. Because who doesn’t need a few goats around the house?
Balls (Cruz Boys #1) Page 23