Hard Compromise (Compromise Me)

by Samanthe Beck

  What did one wear for a fake date with the town sheriff?

  Something that doesn’t make you look like a hooker.

  Right. Aim for simple and classy. She pulled on the next possibility, and scolded herself for making a mountain out of such a molehill. She knew Montenido like she knew the freckles across her nose. When it came to things to do, the town didn’t present endless options. Dinner. Maybe a movie. The area around the university boasted a few clubs, and during summer people liked to picnic on the beach and watch the sunset, but the only fools hanging out on the beach on a January evening were sixteen year olds looking to get laid.

  So…no beach. Tempted as she was to put on cut-offs, a Montenido University tank top, and Uggs for old time’s sake, she doubted Booker would laugh.

  He might laugh at this, though. The generic black pencil skirt and fitted red blouse managed to scream I’m-trying-too-hard and I-have-absolutely-no-imagination at the same time. She stared at her reflection in the mirror above her dresser and added a scarf to the ensemble. Awesome. Now she looked like a flight attendant. She ripped the stupid silk square off, tossed it onto the chaise, and got to work on the blouse buttons.

  She’d stressed about this date all day. Actually had to stop herself from calling him at a half dozen points during the afternoon and asking for some hint of what he had in mind for tonight. Pathetic.

  Worse, she knew the indecisiveness stemmed from nerves. Booker trusted her with his problem, and asked for her help solving it. She needed to get her side of things right. Unfortunately, New Year’s Eve had shown that when left to her own devices, she looked like she shopped at Denise’s R Us. In an effort to muster up some classy, she ended up overthinking things and driving herself crazy.

  He’s picking you up. If you’re dressed wrong, he’ll say something, and you’ll change.

  Dressed wrong? She stepped out of her black peep-toe heels. Where had that come from?

  Her temper started to simmer—mostly at herself, but also at him, for asking her out in the first place and turning her into a self-conscious freak.

  Enough. How about you wear what you want, and if he doesn’t like it, he can change his plans for the evening?

  She looked at herself in the mirror, wearing nothing except her lucky black bra and matching panties. The sexy curves of her white chaise beckoned from behind her. A sudden, vivid fantasy played out in the mirror. Booker sat on the chaise, with her astride him. One tug from him was all it would take to rend the thin straps of her bra. Then he tangled his long fingers in the back of her thong and slowly pull it off… Heat licked her skin, even as anticipation tightened it.

  Hell, she should just meet him at the door like this. What was the point of the date anyway? Some kind of test? A dress rehearsal to make sure she cleaned up all right before he paraded her in front of his family? Because if it was, screw him and his six thousand bucks. He could find someone else—some debutant with the right upbringing who instinctively chose the perfect I-don’t-know-what-the-fuck-we’re-doing-tonight outfit.

  The doorbell chimed, interrupting her internal rant, and before she could talk herself out of it, she stormed to the door all horny and pissed, flung it open, and pulled him inside by his belt buckle. As soon as he cleared the threshold she slammed the door behind him, pivoted on her heel, and stalked down the hall toward her bedroom. “I decided we’re staying in tonight.”

  His footsteps assured her he followed, but when she turned to face him, he didn’t stop coming at her. Instead, he backed her up, spun her around, and bent her over the high arm of the chaise. Next thing she knew, his big palm cracked across her ass, and a current of perverse pleasure ricocheted through her.

  His voice rolled over her gasp. “Did you even look through the peephole? What if it hadn’t been me?” He brought his hand down again, but lower this time, hitting places between her thighs and making them sing.

  “Who says I thought it was you?”

  He bent her into a deeper angle, kicked her feet apart, and delivered an all-too-fleeting blow right over ground zero. The impact stung sensitive nerve endings and forced another gasp out of her.

  “You’re spoiling for a fight, aren’t you? Tell you what, Lauralie, I’m going to adjust your mood, and then you’re going to get dressed, and we’re going out.”

  “Don’t bet on it, Booker.”

  “We’re betting on it.” He traced the line of her thong and she pushed her face into the cushion to keep from begging. When he grazed her clit with his knuckle she struggled not to chase his touch. “I’ll bet I can make you come in the next ten seconds. If I lose, send me home. If I win, we go to dinner, and you sit across from me in your drenched panties, remembering exactly who got you there.”

  She wanted to warn him a smart man would run for the door, because when it came to her, even if he won, he lost, but what came out of her mouth was, “I hope you didn’t make reservations.”

  Something landed on the cushion beside her head. His phone. She glimpsed ten seconds on the timer, but then he stroked her again, moving that diabolical knuckle in a circle, and her vision blurred. Trembles started in her knees and quickly migrated to her thighs. Everything ached. Everything throbbed. She held her breath and willed herself to endure. Do them both a favor and end this farce before one of them did something that couldn’t be undone. Ten seconds? Surely she could hold out for ten seconds.

  He caught her clit between his fingers and squeezed. Pressure built in her lungs. Places deep inside her wound so tight tears stung her eyes. Every nerve in her body felt as if it originated at the stunningly sensitive knot of flesh trapped in his clasp.

  He bent over her so his words flowed directly into her ear. “Tell me, Jailbait, how close are you?” She might have had it in her to tell him, “Close only counts in horseshoes,” but he didn’t wait for a reply. Instead he gave the tip of her clit a ruthless flick and sent her over, releasing a spasm of pleasure strong enough to curl her spine. Her breath escaped from her lungs on a moan of relief.

  A second spasm waited behind the first. Seeing as how her noble intentions had failed, she rocked her hips and prepared for more, but the hand between her legs abruptly withdrew, and what promised to be an exquisitely intense aftershock immediately faded. Desperate to recapture the subsiding sensation, she clenched her thighs and tried to close her legs. His foot between hers thwarted her, and the maddening ghost of an orgasm floated off.

  His lips brushed the rim of her ear. “I win.” He angled his phone so she could see the screen and watch the last two seconds tick by.

  “That doesn’t count, and you know it.” Damn it, she sounded whiny instead of rightfully pissed.

  “Why? Because I didn’t service you to your heart’s content?” His hand took the back route between her legs again, fingertips leading. She widened her stance and lifted onto her tiptoes to give him a proper opportunity to make it up to her.

  Apparently he had different ideas. He swirled his fingers over the silk stretched across her sex, and then drew a lazy design on her bare skin with his fingertip. “That wasn’t our bet, was it?”

  Damn him. “No.”

  “What was our bet?”

  “Ten seconds to make me come.”

  “And did you? Speak up, Jailbait. Yes or no?”

  He knew very well she had. He was painting her ass with the evidence. “Yes, but—”

  “No buts.” He slapped hers, hard enough to suggest she hadn’t cornered the market on frustration, and stepped away. “I won. Get dressed.”

  Chapter Seven

  Booker walked out of her bedroom, parked himself by her front window, and dragged a hand through his hair hard enough to make his scalp sting. The pain didn’t much distract from the real agony centered much lower, but it was the best he could manage at the moment, short of banging his head against a wall. If his hard-on didn’t subside soon he might break down and try blunt head trauma.

  A cautious breath brought some oxygen to his deprived b
rain, and a small measure of equilibrium followed. Enough to silently acknowledge the initial five minutes of his first date with Lauralie Peterson qualified as an exercise in self-torture. He should have expected as much. She came with lots of warning labels, most of which she’d proudly applied herself. He’d never mistaken her for a gentle soul.

  While he appreciated her complexities, tonight’s behavior wasn’t especially difficult to interpret. She’d attempted to hijack control of the evening. Why remained a mystery, but she hadn’t opened her door wearing nothing but underwear to initiate a conversation about tonight’s plans—a conversation he would have been perfectly happy to have, for the record—she’d done it to initiate a power struggle. Something had set her off, and instead of discussing it with him she’d resorted to the tactics experience had taught her were most likely to result in her getting her way.

  No matter how much it killed him to resist, he had to. If he gave in to the tactic, even over something as inconsequential in the grand scheme of things as whether they went out for dinner tonight, he was just like any other guy she’d known. Fools who settled for her body instead of trying to figure out what was going on in her mind. She’d lose respect for him—as well she should—and he’d lose respect for himself. They both deserved better.

  The knowledge helped keep his less reasoned instincts in check—the ones picturing her bent over the demure white sofa with her hips lifted high and his cock buried in the welcoming heat between her thighs.

  The ding of his phone signaling an incoming text also helped get those rampant instincts under control, especially when he pulled it out and saw Aaron’s name on the screen.

  Favor. Call Katie and tell her you need my help tonight. Dinner’s on me.

  Why do I need your help?

  The reason doesn’t matter. Make some shit up…you need my help buying shoes for the wedding.

  Shoe shopping? WTF? Should we get pedicures first?

  Bloody buggering hell, just give her a reason, or I’m stuck having dinner with the ice queen.

  Was that some sort of British slang? Dinner with the ice queen?

  I’m busy.

  Stop wanking.

  That bit of slang he recognized.

  Fuck off, pervert. I’m taking Lauralie to dinner.

  Ah. So you’re wanking off later.

  The insulting prediction made him smile.

  Exactly.

  Going to the pub near her place?

  He knew where this was heading.

  Don’t even think about it. Come anywhere near Delaney’s, I’ll have you arrested and deported.

  Untwist your knickers. I won’t be there.

  Before Booker could type in an appropriate threat in response, Aaron signed off with a fist, followed by an eggplant.

  Bastard. But a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Receiving obscene, go-fuck-yourself emoticons from his sister’s fiancé restored his faith in human nature. He touched the button to bring up his home screen and slid the phone into the pocket of his jeans, feeling calmer than he had since arriving on Lauralie’s doorstep.

  His blood pressure spiked again a second later when she emerged from her bedroom immersed in a slouchy gray sweater, black leggings, and tall, black boots. She’d scooped her hair into a sexy knot at the back of her head, but some stray curls escaped to tease her neck…and his cock.

  Halfway down the hall she paused and leaned over to give one boot a tug. The wide neckline of her sweater gaped.

  Choose another view or you’re never going to make it to dinner.

  He shifted his attention to a silver chain bracelet encircling her wrist. Charms dangled from it, bouncing off each other every time she moved. He imagined them jangling rhythmically while she clung to that big iron bed of hers and he drove into her.

  Good job. That’s much better.

  When she straightened, her eyes found his. “Problem?”

  “None.” The vicious pounding in his dick made his response harsher than he intended.

  Her eyes flashed. She crossed her arms and firmed her chin. “Good, because I’m fresh out of Armani. I don’t know what you were expecting, but this is what you get. If you don’t like it, we can end this date right now.”

  What the fuck Armani had to do with anything, he couldn’t say, but the mystery of what had set her off immediately resolved. She’d worked herself into a mood over what to wear. He’d work on getting to the underlying reason after he reassured her. A couple steps closed the distance between them. When they stood toe-to-toe, he gave her a slow once-over. “You look beautiful. Is that what you need to hear?”

  Even as pink crept into her cheeks, she rolled her eyes, muttered, “Men,” and swept past him. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  The exasperation in her voice pulled a laugh out of him. “Two nights ago you told me you always dress to please yourself. Why would I expect you to do otherwise tonight?”

  She stalked to the entryway closet and yanked it open. “I don’t know, Booker.” Hangers scraped as she searched through the garments. “You’re the one who wants this…trial run, or whatever you call it.”

  And there it was. He wanted to kick himself for leaving her with the impression tonight amounted to some sort of audition she might pass or fail. He walked over, silently hemming her in between the closet and his body. She pulled a short, black leather jacket off a hanger, and then turned and glared at him. He held his ground.

  “I call it a date. You seem unfamiliar with the concept. See, what happens is two people go out for a meal, some conversation, and a chance to enjoy each other’s company.”

  “We could enjoy each other’s company right here, but apparently that doesn’t interest you—”

  He cupped a hand to the back of her head to protect her skull, and pressed her against the doorframe, pinning her hips with his. “Does it feel like I’m not interested?”

  Her breath steamed his jaw. “Then why are we going out?”

  “It’s what people in a relationship do.”

  “We’re not in a relationship—”

  “We are for the next six weeks.” And he didn’t intend to waste a single one of them. “Don’t look so annoyed, Jailbait. You might actually end up having a good time.”

  Blond brows arched. “In my experience the more time we spend together fully clothed, the more likely we’ll end up bored out of our minds.”

  He took the jacket from her, gestured for her to turn around, and helped her into it. With his mouth close to her ear, he said, “The woman wearing wet panties is worried about being bored?”

  “Sorry to tell you this, Booker, but my panties aren’t wet.”

  “They will be, before dinner is over.”

  She turned and patted his cheek. “Not going to happen.”

  He caught her hand, brought it to his mouth, and sank his teeth into the pad of flesh below her thumb, biting just hard enough to make her eyes darken. “What makes you so sure?”

  “I’m not wearing any panties.”

  …

  Laurie smoothed Scarlet Seduction over her upper lip, then the lower. Once both were coated, she pressed them together and let them part with a little pop. With the small chore attended to, she officially ran out of reasons to loiter in the ladies’ room at Delaney’s. Booker was in the bar, somewhere, ordering drinks while they waited for a table to open. In truth, she didn’t even need to use the restroom. She excused herself because she needed a moment to recover after their walk from her apartment to the restaurant.

  Walking a quarter of a mile along well-maintained sidewalks didn’t elevate her pulse in the least, but walking a quarter of a mile with Booker’s fingers casually threaded through hers and his thumb caressing her palm with steady strokes that enflamed every one of her overheated nerve endings? That quickened her pulse. And she had a sneaking suspicion he knew it.

  Stupid, letting such a simple gesture throw her off her game, but her system simply hadn’t known how to react when he’d reac
hed down and taken her hand. She wasn’t a hold hands kind of girl. Best she could recall she’d never walked hand in hand with anyone. Maybe Chelsea, when they were little, but otherwise? Nope. If she decided to let a man touch her, they didn’t waste time holding her hand. What was the point?

  Except maybe there was one because five minutes of strolling hand in hand with Booker sent her straight to the restroom to wrestle with her equilibrium. What was wrong with her?

  I don’t know, but the next time you go on a date with Booker, wear underwear.

  Excellent plan. She pushed through the restroom door. The hum of conversations immediately surrounded her. It took some doing to maneuver her way through the crowd to where Booker stood beside the only empty barstool. He chatted with the bartender—a tall, sun-bleached stud named Jessie, who was basically a golden retriever trapped in the body of a man. Jessie’s easy-going smile dimmed when he looked her way.

  “Hey, Laurie. ‘Sup?”

  He extended an arm across the bar for a hug. She leaned in and gave him one, a little surprised when he didn’t let go right away. A quick glance at Booker revealed nothing. “What’s up with you, Jessie?”

  “I heard about the fire. I’m super-bummed for you. And for me.” He slowly uncurled his arm, and gave her the puppy dog eyes. “I loved your maple-glazed waffle donuts.”

  The weight of the loss settled on her again. In her preoccupation with Booker and this date, she’d momentarily forgotten the reason she’d agreed to this charade in the first place. “Hopefully I’ll be able to rebuild soon.” Assuming you repay the deposits, and your loan, and don’t go bankrupt in the meantime.

  His smile returned. “Awesome. Let me know how I can help.”

  She picked up the glass of white wine sitting on the bar next to Booker’s beer. “This helps.”