He hit her throat. Another deep thrust, and he was there. “I’m going to come so fucking hard,” he whispered, his fingers curling around her skull. Lust slammed into him, tearing through every cell in his body. He closed his eyes, and the world turned black and brilliant.
It was his turn to groan. To shout her name. To throw back his head and grunt in everlasting pleasure as he gave to her what she’d given to him.
His pleasure, for hers.
CHAPTER TWENTY
He hated leaving, detested zipping his jeans, tucking in his shirt, and shoving his wallet in his back pocket. Especially since she was so snug and adorable under the white duvet on the king-size bed. She pulled the covers up to her chin, looking too cute for words. He loved how she could switch from naughty temptress to sweet princess in seconds. “Seeing as you snagged this suite for me, seems a sin to let it go unused,” she said.
“You do look comfortable.”
She shooed him away. “Go to New York. I’m going to enjoy this fabulous bed all by myself.” She sighed contentedly, settling into the plush white pillow.
“You’re killing me,” he said as he grabbed his phone from the couch, patting his pockets to finish his inventory.
“Oh, I’m sure the plane will be just as nice. The only thing those first class seats will be missing is... me,” she said, with a wicked glint in her eyes.
He jammed a hand in his hair and walked over to the bed, parking his hands on the side of the mattress. “What I wouldn’t give to get in this bed with you right now.”
“It’s especially nice if you’re naked against the sheets,” she said, turning on her side, taunting him as the duvet slipped to above her breasts, exposing her bare shoulders.
“What are you doing on Tuesday? I’m back then. Spend the night with me. My first meeting Wednesday isn’t till ten in the morning, so I promise I won’t cut it short.”
“If you don’t intend to cut it short, you’re going to need to get that fine ass of yours to San Francisco,” she said, snaking out a hand from under the covers and grabbing his rear. “I’m there for the on-site rehearsal. At your club. I don’t fly back till late Tuesday.”
“Mmm,” he said, stroking his chin. “I just remembered I need to visit Edge in San Francisco on Tuesday night, and then take you back here with me.”
“You don’t want to just meet up back here?”
“No. Because I’ll leave New York in the morning so I’ll see you a few hours sooner if I don’t have to wait in Vegas for you to finish and catch your flight.”
“Consider that a yes.” She smiled broadly. “Get out of here, Nichols. You’ll miss your flight.”
He bent down and claimed her lips one final time, lingering on her sweet taste, hoping it stayed with him until he could touch her again in a few days.
If anyone had asked him a few weeks ago if he’d ever see the love of his life again, much less kiss her, he’d have given a resounding no. Fate had been teaching him a lesson up until then. Don’t walk away from the greatest thing you’ve ever known, you stupid idiot.
Fate had been beating that one into his head. Relentlessly. Like water torture.
Then, he’d been granted a reprieve.
He took one last kiss for the road. “I’ll see you in San Francisco then.”
The little flecks of gold in her emerald eyes nearly sparkled. “When? When will you arrive?”
She sounded so damn eager to see him, too, and for the first time since he’d started chasing her again, he truly felt as if he was close to catching her, wrapping his arms around her, and holding her for always. Maybe she was on the same wavelength, too.
“I’ll book my flight as soon as possible. I’ll text you the details.”
She scrunched up the corner of her lips. “Hmm. I wonder if I should keep making you wait more. For the thing you really want.”
He grumbled in protest, then relented. “The thing I want is you. I will wait for you as long as I have to,” he said, then took a beat. A pause for effect. “But preferably not much longer.”
She laughed. “We’ll see what kind of mood I’m in when you get to San Francisco.”
“Then it will be my job to get you in the mood to spread those legs, wrap them around my back, and dig in your heels,” he said, trailing his fingers between her breasts, savoring the last arch of her back as she responded to his touch.
She looked so vulnerable. So open. So ready for him. She’d given her body to him so freely during the last few weeks. And the more she gave of the physical, the more she seemed to be opening her heart to him again.
As she met his eyes, he was reminded once more of that stay of execution he’d been granted. The amnesty from his past mistakes. He couldn’t let her slip away again.
He ran his thumb over her chin, and pressed his finger over her lips. “Don’t say anything. It’s my turn, and I want to leave you with this. I’m crazy for you. Completely, absolutely, thoroughly crazy about you.”
Her eyes glittered, and on that note he walked away.
But this time, he was coming back.
He was leaving having said the right words, instead of the wrong ones. Even though they barely scratched the surface of all he felt for her.
* * *
She wasn’t going to listen to his orders not to say anything.
She might have put him through his paces, made him jump through a few hoops, but she wasn’t going to let him be the only one of them to take a risk.
He was changing, and hell, so was she.
“Brent!”
He stopped at the door. His hand gripped the knob. He turned to look at her. She read nervousness in his gaze, hope in his stance.
“I feel the same,” she said, her heart pounding hard against her chest, trying to leap to him.
With tonight cut off at the knees, now was so clearly not the time to dig deep and tunnel all through the past to the most broken parts of them. But she could start this way—by telling him that she was falling, too. Somehow they’d shifted from him trying to prove himself, to her wanting to show she was worthy of him, too. Worthy of all his affection, of his tender gestures, of his humor, and of his heart.
She knew him well. He was easy. He was simple in the best of ways. All he’d ever wanted was to know her. To understand her past, to help her, to be the one she could lean on. When they were together before, he’d struggled mightily with her need to keep some things buried. While she’d have to find a better time—when they had time—to serve up the story of how her life had capsized in a London hospital, she could give him this much tonight—these words, these feelings that had raced well beyond the physical and claimed a portion of her heart.
“I’m crazy for you, too,” she added.
Then she let him go, the sound of the door snapping closed sealing off the night. She’d replay it as she drifted off into bed. All of it. From the wow to the crazy for you, and every toe-curling, heart-beating, blood-pounding moment in between. Even their fight in the elevator. Because some things might change, but some would remain the same.
They were fire.
* * *
She woke up to a text message. A dirty, naughty one that sent a hot shiver through her body.
I can still taste you.
Then a sweet one. Text me when you wake up, sunshine. I have something for you.
She wrote back instantly. I’m up, and glad to hear you enjoyed your dessert last night.
As she pushed off the covers, his reply arrived. I could have you for dessert for every meal. Every snack. Every second of every day. You taste spectacular.
Then Brent texted her that she had an open tab at the Luxe spa to spend the day getting pampered. Massage, pedicure, hot stones, whatever it is that happens in spas that you like—it’s yours today. That sounded like a fantastic way to spend her Sunday, so she replied, You win. You’ve made it impossible not to like you again.
She hopped in the shower, luxuriating in the hot jets of the rainforest
-style showerhead, and replaying the almost-sex with the man she’d wanted to marry. He could bring it. Oh hell, he could bring it every time. There was no B game from Brent Nichols. He fired on all cylinders all the time. A game only.
She turned off the spray, dried her body, reapplied lip gloss, and freshened her breath with the hotel toothpaste. She’d slipped back into last night’s dress when she heard a knock on the door.
When she opened it, she revised his grade. Make that A plus game—both in bed and in treating her like a queen.
Because, courtesy of Mr. Nichols, room service was delivering a bowl of fresh blueberries, a serving of steel-cut oatmeal, and a steaming pot of black coffee, one sugar on the side. Her favorite breakfast. Her heart grew wings and soared around the room like an animated bird.
A series of messages rained down on her screen, one right after the other.
The car service will be waiting for you as soon as you’re ready to head home.
No woman of mine is cabbing it after I come in her mouth.
Hard. Come hard.
Very hard.
Have I mentioned how absolutely divine your lips are?
Off to lunch. I trust your mood for Tuesday is going to be hot and bothered.
As she read them all, a rush of heat spread through her veins, remembering the night before when he’d ordered her to finish him off. She loved that commanding tone he’d used, just as it turned her on to no end when he called her woman of mine. She wasn’t sure precisely when she’d become his woman again, but after the last two weeks, she felt like his. Which scared her and thrilled her.
In equal measures.
As she left the room, she replied. Hot, bothered, and well fed, apparently. THANK YOU.
She’d closed out of her text messages when an idea hit her. Something she could give to him. She leaned against the hallway wall, and found a photo-altering app she used sometimes on her phone. She opened an image from her gallery, added a few details to it, then attached the photo to the thread and sent it off to him.
Then she did something she hadn’t done since college.
The walk of shame.
Her stilettos clicked loudly on the sleek gray floor of the lobby as she headed to the elevator bank that would take her to the spa level. She kept her chin up high and strolled through the hotel as if she owned the right to walk through it the morning after in the same dress, same shoes, same earrings, and a new big, fat grin.
Probably everyone there at the Luxe would be able to tell she’d had some seriously hot action last night. Come to think of it, she didn’t mind if anyone knew. The after-glow from a great orgasm was a damn good look. She could market a line of skin care products in that style. O Glow. She chuckled to herself, making a beeline for the elevators when her cell bleated loudly from her purse. Flipping open her bag, she reached for her phone.
Ryan Sloan.
Her shoulders tensed. She shouldn’t feel that way about hearing from her brother, but given their last conversation, she had a hunch what was on his mind.
“Hey Ry,” she said.
“Hey. What are you up to?”
She glanced around. Okay, fine. She might not care if strangers thought she looked like a woman who’d gotten some, but her brother didn’t need the details of her sex life, which would be obvious if she said she was leaving a hotel.
“I just finished breakfast. What about you?”
“Heading to the gun range for a little practice.”
She shuddered involuntarily. Even though she owned one, guns were not on her list of favorite things. Ryan was in the security business though, so he needed to stay sharp.
“Aim carefully,” she said, as she leaned against a nearby wall.
“Hey, remember what we talked about at Grandma’s?”
“Yeah,” she said with a sigh.
“I got some more info. I need to talk to you.”
She drew a deep breath, her pulse skittering with nerves. “Tell me.”
“Not on the phone. Let’s meet up.”
She glanced at the time. “You’re over at Reiss Range, right?”
“Should be there for an hour.”
That gave her enough time to change into something simpler. Something that wouldn’t scream that she’d been licked senseless the previous night. Because whatever Ryan needed to tell her did not necessitate her wearing fuck-me shoes.
“I’ll be there.”
She dialed the car service number Brent had left for her. The driver told her he’d be there in five minutes.
So much for the spa. She couldn’t relax now if she’d wanted to.
Soon, she slipped into the town car, savoring the cool air, and the final few moments of this cocoon—the morning-after moments, as she floated down from her high from last night. Any minute, her feet would touch the cold, hard ground again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The head of the neighborhood association was a certified fanboy.
Alan Hughes knew all of Brent’s dirtiest and filthiest bits by heart.
As he held up his fork, preparing to dive back into his steak, the man who stood between Brent and the Big Apple expansion recited more lines from memory. Ordinarily, the entertainer in him would be thrilled to have someone repeating his lines. But Brent was no fool. He knew the polo-shirt and khakis wearing, forty-something father of two tween girls wasn’t quoting him to suck up at this lunchtime meeting at McCoy’s over prime rib and problems.
Brent fixed on a closed-mouth smile as Alan Hughes waxed on from a comedy bit deemed too crude for his late-night show. This joke had only appeared online. Brent tensed, knowing what was coming next.
Alan punctuated the finale with a stab of his utensil in the air. “And that’s why you should never shave your own balls.”
The joke had been beloved by twenty-something guys. Dudes had gone ape-shit over some of Brent’s bits. That one had earned him some serious guy cred online. Trouble was, that was exactly the opposite of the crowd he needed to impress now. Though Alan lived in Tribeca with his wife and two daughters, the man screamed suburbs, which meant he was the kind of guy trying to turn the city into a quiet, calm hamlet at night.
Alan pointed to himself. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m a huge fan of Jackass and that kind of humor. I love the whole filthy, dirty, late-night Comedy Nation style. I watch it myself when the wife and kids are in bed. The problem is, you’re not trying to win guys like me over.”
Brent nodded. “Got it. And I’m glad you liked it. But talk to me about who I need to win over, Alan. Tell me what you see in your neighborhood,” he said, inviting the guy into the conversation, letting him know he cared. Sealing the deal on New York was vital to Brent’s plans, so he had to play ball. New York was mission critical for Edge, but he also didn’t want to let down his friend Bob. He wanted to come through for him with the gig as manager of the club, delivering for the man who’d given him some of his biggest breaks.
But first, he had to deliver for others.
“Everyone else,” Alan said crisply. “The moms. The stroller moms. The soccer moms. The—”
“The moms,” Tanner barked, his coarse voice grating on Brent. He slammed his palm against the table at McCoy’s. It shook. “All the moms.”
Brent nodded several times, then kept his tone light. “Call me crazy, but I’m getting the sense you’re saying... the moms don’t like me.”
“Sorry to bear bad news, but they don’t right now,” Alan said, hanging his head. The guy truly did seem sorry.
“What can I do to win them over, Alan?”
Alan clucked his tongue. “It won’t be easy. How can we say you run a classy joint when you have this kind of history? You were the bad boy of comedy. That’s what your own network called you.”
“They did. But let’s be frank here. I wasn’t some criminal. They called me that because I had a foul mouth on stage. Because I had ink on my arms. Because it was part of a character.” Brent held open his palms. Nothing to hide
here. “But at the end of the day, I was just a comedian, telling some dirty jokes. Let’s move on.” He tapped the table with his index finger. “Talk to me, Alan. Tell what I need to do to convince your neighborhood that I can be good for business.”
Alan nodded, and held up a glass. “I like you. You’re a straight shooter. So I’m going to be straight with you. You need to meet the people in the neighborhood. You need to be charming. You need to show them you’re not just the guy who tells filthy jokes that Axe Spray-wearing douche-canoes watch while smoking bongs.”
“I can do that. And I never use Axe body spray, so there you go.”
Alan chuckled again. “See? I knew you’d make me laugh.”
But laughter wasn’t enough. That was Brent’s stock in trade in his twenties. He’d spun laughter into gold on stage. He’d parlayed jokes into a career, moving up the ladder with each chuckle, each laugh, and each hearty guffaw. They’d fed him and made him wealthy. Now, he’d pivoted. He was reinventing himself as a businessman, and in some ways he was starting at the ground floor. He had to prove he was trustworthy, that he was reliable, and that he was worth betting on when it came to this new playground he was playing in.
Playground.
So bizarre that his days of ball-shaving and first-date waxing had been replaced by playground makeovers. Brent saw a bigger opportunity. “Don’t know if Tanner told you, but I’ve donated some money to have some of the parks revamped in Tribeca. Happy to go further. Build a playground, too. You think the moms will like that?”
Alan nodded approvingly. “Moms love playgrounds. The only thing they’d love more would be a coffee shop in a playground,” he said, and now it was Brent’s turn to laugh. “Anyway, that’s a nice start. And we can build on that. This is what I’m thinking. We’ve got a big picnic coming up in the park. Fundraiser for some neighborhood services. Let’s have you at the picnic. You could come by earlier in the day and say hello. Talk to them. Let them know you’re a family guy at heart. Mention your brother and his wife. Mention your mom. Your dad. Don’t talk up the Vegas roots, or the comedy. I know you’re not married, but is there any chance you have a pregnant fiancée or something like that? If you did, that’d be a nice slam dunk,” Alan said, miming stuffing a basketball through the net.
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