by MK Meredith
The muscles in his jaw ticked as he stared back at her. “Deal. But when I don’t cave, regardless of your—” he paused to wave his hand in her direction “—attributes, you have to announce that your happy ever after is nothing but fairy tales.”
Right now was the moment she should back out. What the hell had she been thinking? Was proving she could make a man want her so important she’d bet her career on it?
Tired of constantly second-guessing her worth, she straightened. Hell yes it was.
A wicked grin spread over his face again. Damn, he had such a nice mouth when he wasn’t talking. Her lips tingled. She was in it to win it, no backing down. Especially to this man. “By Sunday afternoon, you’ll be a goner.”
He yawned. And she gritted her teeth.
Lifting a wedge of rice with a piece of eel topped with a sweet glaze, she breathed in the mouthwatering aroma. She sampled the sauce with the tip of her tongue, then slipped one end of the sushi partway into her mouth, wrapping her lips around it, then slowly pulled it out. On the inside, she was dying of mortification. She’d almost choked twice, with her throat tight and her stomach in knots.
Blake shifted in his seat and cleared his throat.
She spared him a quick look. “God, the sauce is so good.” She repeated the action on the other side of the fish, removing all of the glaze, and then slowly licked her lips. “How’s yours?”
Blake looked down at his plate. He’d yet to take a bite, but dived in at her question.
Seven grinned on the inside. Thank God. She needed to work harder if she hoped to leave Vegas with any dignity.
Heart pounding in her chest, she slid from her seat, pushing her plate toward him. “Here, you need to try this.”
Settling in next to him, she resisted the urge to close her eyes as his cologne and something else she could only guess was all him sent her stomach aflutter. This seduction was for him, not her, damn it.
He looked at her and then back at the empty seat across from him. “What are you doing?”
She picked up another piece of eel and held it to his lips. “Take a bite.”
His brow rose. “Feeding me will not make me fall in love with you.”
She smiled again, her cheeks getting fatigued with all the effort. This seduction business was a lot more work than she’d bargained for.
With a placating nod, he opened his mouth. His white teeth bit through, halfway down the length, and Seven’s stomach did a low, slow roll.
He chewed, his eyes rolling back in his head. “Damn, that is good.” Opening his mouth for the last bite, his lips then closed over the tips of her thumb and index finger. A hot streak of awareness shot up her arm, followed by goose bumps.
She fought the urge to jerk her hand back. Whoa. Time to up her game. She raised her hand to his cheek. “One second.”
She leaned toward him, and he stilled. She was either all in or completely out. Her lungs seized in embarrassment, but it was either be bold and brazen or lose the bet—and she refused to lose to this man. Trailing her fingertips down his roughened cheek, she gave the slightest pressure to turn his face toward her.
His pupils dilated as she moved closer. Now she was getting somewhere.
And with a quick swipe of her finger, she removed sauce from the corner of his mouth.
He blinked.
Pulling her plate back in front of her, she continued to eat. She crossed her legs, and the high front slit of her skirt parted to make room for her upper thigh.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Blake glance down. He fisted his linen napkin tightly in one hand as he shoved another bite of sushi into his mouth.
A deep warmth spread through Seven’s chest. Victory would be hers, and damn if she wasn’t going to have fun playing the game.
Hot editor who? She had Blake Turner to focus on.
“Do you like coming to these conventions?”
She considered him and his question for a second. Asking her about the convention surprised her. So far she’d had him pegged for quite the narcissist, but his face showed absolute sincerity.
She nodded. “I do. It gives me a chance to connect with my readers. Hear what they like and dislike, their dreams and fantasies. It all helps me figure out what I want to write next. I also gain really supportive friendships every time I come.”
“But what about the intrusion, like with your new friend, Ted?”
She winced. “Yes, well. There are always exceptions. Every now and then you run across someone who blurs the lines of fiction and reality. I felt bad lying to him, but—”
“Ahhhh, so you admit none of it’s real. Finally.”
Straightening in her seat, she shook her head and leaned forward. “I’ve done nothing of the sort. The story is fiction, of course. They are stories born from my heart. But the essence, what gives each story life, is love. And I believe in that one hundred percent.”
“Then why aren’t you married?”
She blinked. Twice. Wasn’t that the age-old question? The short answer was because she hadn’t found a man she really loved yet. The long answer had something to do with the fact that none of her relationships ever lasted more than a few weeks, which opened up a slew of questions she wasn’t prepared to answer.
So instead, she answered the question with a question of her own. “Why aren’t you?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Because unlike you, I don’t believe in love or happy ever afters. All I’ve ever seen is happy until you find something better.”
“Ouch.”
He raised his glass in salute, then emptied it.
After the meal, they weaved through the crowded lobby back toward the elevator.
Seven swore the desert heat was going to kill her. The sooner she could get out of her clothes the better. Ever since she’d met Blake she’d been burning up. How long had it been since she’d had a big O—with another person in the room? Too long to admit. Well, things were about to change. This bet seemed like an increasingly brilliant idea.
Blake got off the elevator on her floor. She stopped walking and gave him a sidelong glance.
He pulled on his tie to loosen it from his collar. “I switched rooms to make it easier on you. You’re going to need all the help you can get.”
“How—”
“Don’t underestimate me, Ms. Michaels. I pay attention, and I have my resources. It will do you well not to forget it.”
Her initial feeling of concern switched to a rush of determination. She was going to make this man wish he’d never bet against her, in the sexiest way possible.
She nodded. “I have an event to go to, and a bit of work to do.”
“How much work do you really have? I know you’re a writer and not just a reader, but—”
Seven laughed as she pulled her key from her bag. “There’s no such thing as just a reader. They’re the reason I am what I am.”
He shrugged. “You mean why you do what you do.”
Shaking her head, she palmed the key and faced him. “No, why I am what I am. Writing isn’t just something I do, it’s who I am. Every experience I have is wrapped up in it somehow. My mind immediately analyzes the why, the what-next. Movies, people, the news, you name it.” She pushed her hair back over her shoulders and nodded toward him. “As I imagine you do with your approach to sales. I bet you find opportunities without trying.”
He held her gaze. “How long have you been writing?”
God, he was damned sexy. All muscle, dark hair, and those see-through whiskey eyes. “About eight years.” She could talk about her writing forever. His interest warmed her, making her want to push him into her room and tell him other things.
“How many books have you written?” He absently loosened his tie, then unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, exposing the tanned skin and sparse hairs beneath.
It became harder to breathe. Shit. What had he asked? Oh, yeah. How many books. “Oh, from when I first started, five books, three currently publ
ished, two more in the editing process, and I’m currently working on a new one.”
“That seems like a long time to keep doing something for three books.”
“Three best-selling books.” She flicked her hand in the air. “I’m persistent.”
He stuck his key into the slot on his door, nailing her with a pointed look. “So am I.”
She couldn’t pull her gaze from his hand. “If only,” she said, her voice low.
He glanced at her. Pulling herself together, she let a grin spread wide on her face. “Good, I like a challenge.”
“Something we have in common. I have a few action items from my afternoon meeting, but it shouldn’t take long.”
“I’ll see you in about two hours, right after my meet-and-greet.” Seven gave him one last look, then stepped into her room and closed the door behind her.
God, she had to get out of her clothes. Seeing the damn man unbutton his shirt shouldn’t make her feel as if she’d buttoned hers too tight. She yanked her shirt from her skirt, then unbuttoned it while making her way back to the bathroom. Stubbing her toe on the bed, she yelped and grabbed it in a firm grip against the pain, and hopped on the other foot. She lost her balance, falling back against her bed and sliding off the edge with a loud resounding thunk against the bedside table and onto the floor. The lamp tilted on its base. She lunged for it but overcorrected, sending it flying into the wall with a loud clunk. She slid onto her ass and dropped onto her back with a moan.
She lay there pulling in air, trying to recover from the pain in her toe and her ass and her pride. What in the hell was wrong with her? Pushing to her feet, she stood and dropped her skirt to the floor, leaving her bare except for her nude bra and panties. Not having sex turned her into a damn klutz.
Throwing her top on the bed, she limped to the bathroom. A knock at the door froze her in her tracks.
“Seven, are you okay in there?”
Heat rushed to her hairline, and she closed her eyes. There was no way she could tell him what all the commotion was about. Her clumsiness wasn’t the least bit sexy.
An idea took shape. Could she actually do it? She stifled a giggle, her stomach fluttering with nerves. She’d need to ditch her little housefly balls in order to pull this off.
Making a quick detour to her suitcase, she sifted through the belts and accessories until her hand closed around what she’d been looking for. A girl’s best friend, she never left home without it.
She stood back behind the door and opened it just a few inches. Blowing her falling hair out of her face, she threw him a questioning grin. Showtime.
Blake stood outside her door, wearing his pants and opened button-down shirt. With his feet bare and his jacket and tie missing, Seven suspected he had everything already hung up and in straight lines back in his room.
She liked seeing him mussed up a bit, and took in his meaty chest and rock-hard abs in one eye-fulfilling look, doing everything in her power not to drool. He placed a hand on the frame of her door. “Are you okay? I heard something fall and swore I heard you shout.”
Everything in Seven’s single-woman brain screamed for her to open the door and yank the sexy-ass man into her room, but she had a game to play, and she aimed to win.
She waved away his words. “Oh, I’m fine.” She panted and turned just enough for him to see her shoulder and part of her waist. She could just imagine how she looked to him, with perspiration on her upper lip, half naked, and her hair disheveled from her fall—and she loved it.
His eyes flared. “What happened?”
It was now or never. There was nothing better than leaving a man wondering, imagining, and wishing he were on the other side of that door. Rule number seven: always leave him wanting more. Holding her breath, she lifted her dildo up and turned it on.
Blake’s jaw dropped, and his eyes went wide.
“See you in two hours.” And she closed the door.
Chapter Three
Blake walked Seven into the larger-than-life Mardi Gras bead, otherwise known as the Karaoke Lounge. Glass walls and glass tables reflected light as if you stood inside a diamond, and allowed for a great view of the stage from almost anywhere on the casino floor.
Blake hadn’t been able to believe his eyes when she’d opened her door. His dick had been much faster at processing what he’d been seeing than his brain, and it strained against the top elastic of his boxer briefs once again at the memory. She hadn’t played fair at all.
This was crazy. What the hell was she thinking, showing him her vibrating dildo with that damned smile? Now all he could see was her thoroughly enjoying herself with that smile on her face. Without him.
He glanced at her as they walked through the throngs of people in the lobby, the clicks and bells of the slot machines mixed with the surrounding music and the white noise of hundreds of voices, creating a fuzzy hum full of life. She acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Damn it. Had she actually used the fucking thing or had she just been trying to get under his skin?
Once inside the bead, a little bit of magic happened and the outside noise lowered to a muffled buzz, leaving the music from stage to wash over the room.
He helped her onto a wrought iron barstool, jealous as she slid her ass onto it. His body tightened, thinking of her in just her panties. The little witch.
But he had to wonder about the timing. She hadn’t been in her room three minutes before he’d heard that noise. Had she been turned on by him at dinner or something? His lips pulled up at the corners, and he darted a glance her way. That made complete sense.
Shifting in his seat, his body told him loud and clear how badly he’d wanted to be on the other side of the door with her.
Motherfucker. He hadn’t thought she could do this to him.
But no matter, wanting to have sex with her had nothing to do with falling in love, or even having feelings for her. This was nothing but base biology. She was the one who’d attached meaning to the act. Shit, he was in Vegas, the city where he was supposed to get as much ass as he could—and she had the perfect one for it, but he’d keep that fact to himself.
She’d shown up at his door right at the two-hour mark—he was a man who valued punctuality—in a pair of jeans that seemed to be painted on and one of those flowing, wide-neck shirts that hung halfway down one arm, leaving her shoulder bare and his lips twitching. Her heels brought her almost to his chin, reminding him how little she was—and how easy to toss about in bed. He clenched his teeth.
He jerked his chin down in a nod. As she looked back to the stage, he studied her. The light played off the angles of her face and glistened along her upper lip. She wasn’t as cool and calm as she played. Good.
The singer on stage spun around, shaking his butt at the audience, and she laughed. A good, full, from-the-belly laugh, none of that dainty-ass giggling shit. He continued his study of her, wanting to figure out his opponent. He knew she was a writer, she got feisty when challenged, but she chose the table against the wall. She loved to watch without being watched. Interesting.
He narrowed his eyes; he didn’t need to find her interesting. He needed to nail his promotion with his company. Then come Sunday, they’d go their separate ways, and his bank account and ego would get a boost from a successful weekend. But unfortunately, that would not include sex with Seven. His brows drew together. “Why are you so desperate to prove romance is real that you’ll make a bet like this with a stranger?”
She sipped from the bottle and looked at him. “Because I’m sick and tired of the ignorant masses making jokes and mocking a topic they so clearly fear.”
He snorted. “Fear? That is a stretch, even for you.”
“Please. It’s the truth whether or not you want to admit it, or can even recognize it.”
“The last thing I’m afraid of is love. There’s nothing to be afraid of when we’re talking about the likes of Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. They’re full of fun and sweet idealism, but they aren’t real
. Why wouldn’t you write a real book?”
“Why are men such asses when it comes to love?”
He grinned. He’d hit a nerve. “You have a bad mouth.”
Her jaw dropped open. “Oh yeah? Well, I’d like to shove something in yours just to shut you up.”
He raised a brow.
She took a quick drink and looked back up to the stage. “Shut up.” Turning toward him, her knee against his, she poked at his chest. “You say the stupidest things.”
He had a lot to say about what fell out of her mouth.
Speaking of her mouth… His eyes roamed over her face. She’d piled her hair on top of her head, kind of like earlier in the day when they’d met, but with her eyes lined in black and her lips slick with a clear, wet gloss, she didn’t resemble the woman from the elevator. The heat of her leg against his grabbed his attention, and he glanced down at their legs, then back to her face just in time to see her victory smile. What in the hell was going on?
He cleared his throat. “I just think there are more important things to write about than romance or love.”
She raised a brow. “Oh really, like what?”
“I don’t know, politics—”
“Politicians lie. Next?”
He tilted his head. “How about the human experience, stories that tell what it is to be alive, to struggle through life.”
Seven leaned on her elbow. “What’s more human than love? What do we struggle with, yearn for, and aspire to more than love?”
“Easy. Money and power.”
She straightened and absently rubbed a water drop on the table with her finger. “Ever heard of Cleopatra or Helen of Troy? All that money and power, all those wars, were for one thing: love. I agree both are big motivators, but in the end it’s never money or power people wished they’d had more of or more time for. People tend to be way more screwed up over love, all different kinds of love, than they are over how much money they have, or power for that matter. Love gets straight to the heart of what’s worthwhile in life. Money and power are the wrong way to get there.”
She leaned past him to get a napkin, her body pressed to his side. He could feel every curve, and a cloud of cinnamon and honey floated about his head. His mouth watered, and he was surprised to find himself wanting dessert.