by Maria Luis
And if she had to select an eye shadow color . . . Midnight Passion.
No other shadow held as much pigment; no other shadow possessed such a pure absence of any other hue.
She licked her bottom lip, tasting the sweet flavor of her lipstick, and watched with a small shiver and a lot of delight as those black-as-night eyes surrendered to lust. Midnight Passion, indeed.
“Is this our first fight?” she asked, infusing just enough dryness into her tone so he knew she was only teasing him, trying to poke light back into the conversation. “Which one of us is going to storm off and get wasted?”
His cheeks hollowed with a gruff chuckle. “We’re not fighting. We’re just . . .”
“Having a disagreement?”
“Yeah.”
“A horse with no name is still a horse.”
Shifting his weight, he pulled one hand away from the bar and shoved it deep into the front pocket of his jeans. Debonair. It was the perfect word for him. Debonair and . . . enticing. What would he do if she used her finger in his belt loop to tug him closer? Lizzie didn’t have any personal experience on the topic, but she’d heard from friends that makeup sex was the best type of sex.
“You know that makes no sense, right?” He shook his head, a smile lightening his naturally broody features. “Where did you even come up with that?”
A small shrug of her shoulders. “Half-song, half-natural creativity. If you thought about it, you’d realize it does make sense. Disagreements and fighting are practically synonyms in this context, so, really—”
“What am I going to do with you, princess?”
Kiss me.
Not that she said that.
She’d already reached her daily quota for kiss-begging.
Lizzie studied his rugged face. “You could buy me another drink.”
“I could.”
Heat swept over her as he moved in, his big body eating up the space between them. Lizzie wasn’t short by any means, but compared to Gage? She felt tiny, delicate, especially when he withdrew his hand from his pocket and settled it on the curve of her waist.
She wanted to blame the unevenness of her breathing on the dress, on the too-tight straps and the even tighter bodice. All lies. It was him, Gage, who had her panting like she’d run a half-marathon or like she’d had an hour-long sex marathon. Gage who backed her up flush against the bar, and dropped his face to the place where her neck and shoulder met. Gage who made her question everything—life, sex, nothing at all—as her thoughts emptied like a sieve and left her with only one last thing.
Desire.
A deep inhale through her nose did nothing to abate the pulse between her legs or the heavier tempo of her heart.
Could he hear it?
Her heart beating?
The music changed, switched over to the next track, and the song that emerged could only be labeled as one thing: a sex song.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, because as the couples on the dance floor set the club on fire, Lizzie was burning up—and except for that one hand on her waist, Gage wasn’t even touching her.
Then he did.
With the blunt tip of his finger, he moved the strap of her dress to the side. The polyester skimmed her skin, calling goose bumps to her flesh, and then his mouth pressed down. Teeth grazing her skin in a soft, taunting nip. Tongue swiping out to soothe the sting. Lips brushing the tender spot with barely-there pressure.
Lizzie’s head fell back, and Gage took advantage, delivering the same attention to her neck. Slower, though. It was sensual and seductive and it was nothing at all like the frantic sex sessions—the frantic two-minute sessions—she’d had in the past with her exes.
“Gage,” she whispered, desperate fingers grasping his corded forearms. Pushing him away, pulling him closer; in that moment, it was all the same.
He pressed his cheek to hers, and whispered in her ear, “Dance with me, princess.”
“Now?”
“You know of a better time?”
“Valid point.” Unwilling to give him the upper hand, Lizzie sauntered past him, stopping only to link her hand with his, and then pulled him to the dance floor.
The strobe lights were blinding, a little nauseating, and Lizzie centered her attention on the sexy-as-hell man in front of her instead.
As did every other female in their general area.
Gage commanded attention; it was simply the best way to put it. There were no awkward dance moves for him. Instead, he flashed her a wink and a grin, and proceeded to show her that if she wanted to keep up, she’d have to work hard.
Working hard had never been Lizzie’s downfall.
She approached him with a sassy sway to her hips, sending a small thank-you up to the music gods when the song changed again, this time to something with a heavy Latin beat.
Brilliant.
Thanks to outings with Jade, who was half-Cuban, Lizzie knew exactly how to move her body.
Eat your heart out, Gage Harvey.
Hand on his shoulder, she circled him once, then stepped back into his line of sight. Not that he looked at all tempted to cast his gaze elsewhere.
Lizzie shimmied. Rolled her hips. Lifted her hands to the ceiling, and kicked up her chin with a naughty smile in his direction. The rhythm of the music dictated each movement, each sharp thrust of her hips side-to-side in pure Shakira fashion.
Gage fell.
And he fell hard.
His hands found her hips, and he smoothly spun her around.
Her back to his chest, his breath warm against her ear. Strong, masculine thighs clenched behind hers.
It was a heavenly blend of bliss and torture, and Lizzie had no shame in tugging his left hand away from her hip and folding it across her middle, just below her breasts, as her head fell back against his shoulder.
“You’re killing me,” came his guttural voice in her ear. “You’re fucking killing me, Lizzie.”
Lizzie, not princess.
She smiled, and didn’t stop. But she did twist her head just so, to stare up at him. “Are you complaining?”
His fingers tightened against her. “Hell no.”
Black met blue, their gazes clashing in the middle of the crowded club. And Lizzie . . . she breathed it all in, soaked up the excitement, as well as the nerves of having him so close. It was the most thrilling moment she’d had in years with a man, if ever, and she never wanted it to end.
Forever isn’t an option.
Her hips paused, slowed, and then regained momentum as she pushed those thoughts of more away. This wasn’t about more, and it wasn’t about forever. It was about now, about the music threading through her soul, and the lust heating her core.
It was about being with this man and thinking of no one else.
She slipped her hand up into his hair, swirling her hips, enjoying the way his dark lashes fluttered shut to fully enjoy the sensation.
“I’m sorry I made you feel less than.”
The words against her temple were a shock to her system. “What?”
He opened his eyes. Smooth onyx, she thought, the color of his eyes were the exact hue of onyx.
“At Naked You the other day,” he explained, never missing a beat as they danced, “I never intended to make you feel less than brilliant. There are things . . .” His breath whooshed out. “I’ve spent too many years on the wrong side of the coin, the center of attention for all the wrong reasons. And I spent the same number of years working my ass off to be judged on my work ethic, nothing else. So I’m sorry, that’s all. Offending you wasn’t my intention.”
Her belly quivered with the rough admission, and she suspected that admitting anything didn’t come naturally to a man like Gage Harvey.
Even in heels, she had to lift on her toes to even put their lips in the same stratosphere. His black eyes burned bright, a silent dare for her to take what she wanted, and Lizzie planned to do just that.
“Gage, I—”
Her belly quivered again, an
d this time it had nothing to do with the man wrapped around her, and everything to do with that telltale sloshing sensation taking up habitat in her stomach.
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
“Princess?” His hand slipped from her belly to her back, and that encouraging touch was almost worse than anything else he could have done.
Her gaze darted to the right, to the left.
And even as she made a break for the black trash bin posted against the wall, she knew exactly what was coming.
She didn’t make it.
Three feet from the garbage can, she keeled over, hands on her knees, and threw up in front of every club-goer, bartender, and worst of all, in front of Gage Harvey.
Chapter Fourteen
The sound of rock music playing woke Lizzie early the next morning.
If the music hadn’t done it for her, then the wafting scent of bacon would have succeeded in popping her eyes open.
She burrowed deeper in the soft covers, drawing them up to her chin and slamming her eyes shut against the bright light streaming in from the half-drawn blinds.
Mmmm, bacon.
Wait. Hold on.
Who was cooking the bacon?
Lizzie lurched upward, tugging the covers with her. Her eyes skirted the room, taking note of the dark wood everywhere—which was a sharp contrast to her own country-blue French-styled furniture—and the large-screen TV posted on the wall opposite the bed.
She didn’t have a TV in her bedroom.
She also didn’t listen to . . . Her ears twitched at the sound of a masculine voice singing along with the heavy rock.
There.
That.
She also didn’t have a man in her apartment.
Oh, God.
Fearing the worst, she pulled the covers away from her body and peeked down.
Clothes, she was wearing clothes. Thank you, thank you, thank you. A T-shirt had replaced last night’s dress, and, yes, those were basketball shorts. Not hers, but it was still something.
I’m not naked.
Good, that was good. As was the fact that she’d taken a cab the night before to the club, so at least she hadn’t driven drunk.
She pushed the covers away, sucking in a deep breath as the cool air hit her skin, and then very quietly slid off the bed. She was obviously at Gage’s house, that she knew. Who else would she have gone home with?
Had they had sex?
As much as she wanted the answer to be yes in any other circumstance, she prayed that it was a no right now. Not like this, not with her drunk and covered in vomit.
Gage Harvey may not be the bad boy—in the classical sense—that she’d initially thought him to be, but she had to hope that he wouldn’t take advantage of the situation . . . would he?
After a fast dart into the adjoining bathroom, Lizzie stole toothpaste and swiped it on her finger to brush her teeth, scrubbed her face clean of makeup, and flicked off the light switch.
She could do this.
Just walk in there and pretend she hadn’t slept off her drunkenness in his bed.
She wasn’t prepared for the sight of Gage at the stove.
Bare-chested.
Low-slung cargo shorts.
Purple LSU ball cap turned backward.
He was . . . Lizzie swallowed, giving his muscled back another unsubtle ogle. He was a dream. A tatted-up, walking wet dream.
The song broke into a guitar rift, and while Gage didn’t do anything so cliché as to fake-play a guitar, he sang right along with the singer, and . . .
Lizzie burst out laughing when his throaty voice cracked on a high note.
His inked shoulders tightened, and he reached for his phone on the counter and lowered the volume. “I see the lightweight has risen,” he said over his shoulder.
Grimacing, Lizzie sat on one of the stools at the kitchen island. His soft T-shirt pooled in her lap as she crossed her legs. “Can we pretend last night didn’t happen?”
“No can do, princess.” He stepped away from the stove and pulled two plates from the cabinets, along with two glasses. “You caught at least two people, you know.”
Caught two people . . .?
Lizzie clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God.” The words were muffled against her palm, but that didn’t stop her from saying them another two times. “Oh my God, oh my God.”
“Yeah, that was their reaction, too.” He set the plates and glasses on the island, and Lizzie didn’t know what was more alarming: the fact that she’d vomited on other people or that his upper body was pure artistry. The muscles, the tattoos . . . She shoved her hands under her butt to keep from running her fingers over his ridged abdomen.
Eight-pack. What normal human had an eight-pack?
Well, he doesn’t drink coffee or eat donuts.
Good point. Next time he even tried to reach for her coffee, she’d slap his hand.
Cheese, too.
The crazy health regimen he preached clearly worked.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she whispered. “Did I . . . I-I don’t even want to ask any more questions about last night. I don’t want to know.”
Two perfectly rounded pancakes landed on a plate before he slid it toward her. “OJ?” Gage asked, turning toward the fridge. “Milk?”
“I’m assuming you don’t have coffee?”
Gage’s soft laugh, accompanied by the early morning light, was the perfect antidote to her hangover. “Would I make your day if I told you that I picked you up a cup when I went to the store for breakfast stuff?”
“I would love you forever.”
He coughed awkwardly, and Lizzie had the sudden desire to bang her head on the kitchen island. Really? she scolded herself. Did you really just say that?
“I mean, I—yes, my day would be made. Absolutely.”
Snagging a Styrofoam cup from next to the microwave, he placed it by her elbow. “Might be a little cool. I bought it maybe forty minutes or so ago, but coffee is coffee, right?”
I’ll love you forever.
This time, Lizzie kept the words to herself even as she guzzled half the deliciousness. “Thank you.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
She lowered her arm, balancing the cup on her knee. “What do you mean, the least you can do?”
A playful grin hitched the right side of his mouth as he took the stool opposite hers. With his backward hat and naked chest, he looked like every Southern boy Lizzie had ever fantasized about while growing up. Put him next to his pickup truck and light a bonfire, and you’d have girls flocking left and right for a slice of his attention.
Her exes couldn’t even compare.
“Gage.”
More of that sexy smirking. “I wanted to make you feel better.”
Lizzie pressed the coffee cup to her chest. “And it’s much appreciated.”
“You didn’t throw up on two people.”
Relief sank her shoulders, her chin dropping to her chest. “Oh, thank God.”
“You threw up on three people.”
Her head jerked up to gape at him. “Three?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He plucked a crisp piece of bacon from their communal plate and popped it into his mouth. “You were a hot mess last night.”
He could say that again.
She’d always been a lightweight, but this was . . . this was awful. She could never show her face again at that club, no way, no how. It didn’t matter that she’d never been there before anyway. Someone could offer her a hundred-k, and she’d turn her back without a second thought.
“I think I’ve lost my appetite,” she said weakly, fiddling with her knife as she set the coffee on the granite counter. “I’m so sorry. All that and then you took care of me? You deserve a medal of honor, a plaque, some sort of reward.”
“Oh, trust me,” he said, that wicked smile curving his mouth again, “I got my reward.”
“You did?”
With his fork, he pointed at her face. “Th
is right here? That’s my reward. You didn’t throw up on a single person, Lizzie. Not at the club, anyway. I became a casualty on the ride home, though. Don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you.”
She wasn’t sure which was worse: believing that strangers had been the victims of her alcohol-induced night or that Gage had been. For that matter, she couldn’t believe that he’d pranked her.
When he reached for his next strip of bacon, Lizzie batted his hand away and stole it for herself. “You’re a jerk.”
“A sexy jerk.”
Her heart thudded. “I didn’t say that.”
“Your eyes did it for you.”
He was driving her insane and her head still pounded like the devil and she needed coffee. After depleting the cup, she countered, “My eyes aren’t on speaking terms with you right now.”
Dropping one forearm to the counter, Gage oh-so-casually drank his orange juice and then murmured, “Your nipples are.”
Her nipples . . .?
She glanced down, and sure enough, the girls were on point. Literally. Crossing one arm over her chest, she stabbed her fork in his direction. “I probably shouldn’t be surprised that you’re a boob guy.”
“No, ma’am,” he drawled in that almost Texas-twang of his, “full disclosure, I’m all about the butt. But, see, I’ve already had my hands all over yours. The same can’t be said for your breasts, so I can’t help but . . . notice them more frequently.”
She couldn’t help but narrow her eyes and suspiciously ask, “You didn’t cop a feel when you undressed me last night, did you?”
“Nah, undressing was all your own handiwork.” Standing, he retreated to the fridge again and poured more OJ into his glass. This time, he brought the jug back to the table to fill her empty glass, as well. She didn’t want to be charmed by the way he moved about, taking care of her, but it was impossible. Retaking his seat, he added, “If you don’t believe me, check out the tags on the clothes. T-shirt, backwards. Shorts, backwards. I tried to convince you to let me lend a hand, but you were stubborn to the end. Showered on your own, changed on your own, passed out on my bed on your own.”
“And you slept . . . where?”
He indicated the living room behind her with a tilt of his chin. “Couch. Trust me when I say shoving my six-two frame onto my sofa was not my finest moment.”