by Marata Eros
I move through the lobby, decked out in vintage 1960s space age décor, and look around with wide eyes. I've lived in Seattle nearly all my life, and I’ve never been here. I walk to the elevator, and a man in a suit presses a button and the elevator doors whisk open. A few people in various states of formal attire move inside and he closes the door with a press of a white-gloved hand.
I ride the glass elevator up. The view is spectacular. City lights greet me in a twinkling crescendo of chaotic pinpoints of color. Puget Sound glitters back at me, the moon riding high and bright against the small whitecaps, as the press of winter lies ready to take hold with icy fingers. I fold my light shawl around my shoulders, feeling the fringe feather and tickle my bare skin. I'm wearing another borrowed outfit from Kiki. She's told me she's too hot to wear something this cool. I smile, remembering her comment when I tried it on in front of her.
“I'm too hot for this sweet dress,” she'd said when I tried on the dress. She spun around me as she plucked and adjusted. Her eyes met mine in the full-length mirror. “But you, you're so cool in it you'll melt whoever sees you.”
She stood and clapped when I spun, relishing who I have a date with. Unbelievable as it is.
I don't know if I’m cool in this dress, but it makes me feel sexy. Free. A precious commodity at the moment.
My eyes search the restaurant, scanning the other diners, and I feel overdressed.
The maître d’ approaches. “Miss Mitchell?”
I nod. How does he know who I am?
“Please, follow me.”
We weave between tables until we reach a wood door with divided and beveled glass panes that distort all the corners as I look through. I don't have any trouble making out Jared.
Mick.
He stands when he sees me through the glass, and I have the sudden and overwhelming urge to cry. It's such an unexpected, old-fashioned gesture that I halt, momentarily stunned. He smiles, and it lights up my core like a match. I feel my insides sear with fire.
With want. It's like spontaneous combustion.
The maître d’ pushes through the door and leads me to a sequestered table. After a moment, I trail after him.
“Watch your step, Miss Mitchell,” he cautions.
I look down. The floor moves ever so slowly. The seam at the rim of where the table sits moves, but the center remains stationary. Vertigo slides over me, and I want to sit down. I think of the doctor's words—vertigo, loss of balance—and I reach out blindly. My hand is taken by McKenna, and my face swivels to his.
The maître d’ melts away, and McKenna draws me closer, his eyes running over me ravenously.
I've seen that expression in hundreds of eyes.
But never one I care about.
One who matters.
~ 9 ~
I think his eyes will go to my breasts or the unseen v between my legs, but they don't. That deep gaze travels to the edge of a bruise that my makeup can't completely hide.
He'd have to be looking for it to notice.
Mick does.
He holds my hand, his eyes pegging the proof of what happened. I try to take my hand out of his and he grips it, those dark eyes moving to mine.
“Don't, Miss Mitchell.”
“You don't have to do this, Mr. McKenna.”
A dark auburn brow rises. “Do what?” He corrects me, “Mick.”
I watch his eyes narrow with an intensity that changes how I breathe, and my palm grow warm in his. He waits for my answer while our flesh melds.
“Feel guilty,” I answer. “I mean...” I indicate our surroundings by sweeping my free hand around the view. The floor moves underneath our feet as the cityscape minutely changes while we stare at each other.
His eyes move to the chair behind me, and he releases my hand as he pulls out my chair. I'll look like an ass if I bolt. I don't think I've ever felt as contrary as I do in that moment.
Mick looks at me as if he's sure I'll sit. What makes him that sure? Is it the money? Does everyone say yes to Jared McKenna? Did he just get flung into money right out of the cradle or is he self-made.
Why does he own strip clubs? It doesn't seem to fit him somehow.
He slides the chair in as I sit as if he's done it a thousand times before. I barely keep from sulking, thinking about the hundreds of women who have stared at those eyes, dreamed about what it could be like with him. That's the difference between them and me—I don't dream. I live it. Right now. Right here.
Mick sits across from me and puts his elbows on the table. He knots his fingers and rests that full mouth against them. We say nothing as we look at each other.
He startles me with, “I don't feel guilty. Just so you know.”
My face must show my surprise because he grins. I realize I kind of want him to feel guilty.
I want someone to feel guilty.
He says, “I know you weren't paying attention before you walked into the street. I couldn't have stopped. There was nothing I could have done differently.”
I feel my brows furrow. “Then... why?” I stare at him, thinking he'll rush in with a good explanation, throw me a life raft. Instead, he lets me fumble around. “Then why take me out like this?”
“I want to,” he says simply.
Those brown eyes stare into mine, and I shift in my seat. What does he want from me? I don't reply but allow myself to stare back. I stare because I want to. My life sentence has given me a bravado that doesn't feel false. I take in everything without shame. Though we're formal, he hasn’t shaved. His hair is short on the sides and longish on the top. A natural wave sweeps it off a low forehead. The flame of his hair burns a deep bronze above eyes that are almost too large for a man's face.
No female alive would mistake Jared McKenna for anything but male. His broad shoulders anchor our table, his biceps stretching the dark navy suit. His crisp white shirt is a blazing star beneath his dusky complexion. I think of how calloused those strong hands are.
“You're blushing,” he comments softly, and I nod. Mick studies me and I don't look away. Still brave. Finally he lets his hands drop to the table draped in fine linen. “You don't seem embarrassed.”
I shake my head. I’m not blushing from shame; it's the effect he has on me. I've never felt arousal, and now it's here to stay because of Mick.
It's in the beating of my heart, the ache between my legs. My nipples are sharp pebbles beneath the lightweight material of my shimmery dress.
It's all... and nothing.
“Then what are you, Miss Mitchell?” Mick asks in soft inquiry.
“I'm not a game to be conquered,” I say. Though I’m not being honest.
Jared makes a purr of contentment deep in his throat and leans back. The waiter comes in and asks what I'd like to drink.
“Whatever he’s having,” I reply. I know that McKenna has some agenda and is accustomed to seeing his pushed through.
He orders a bottle of wine I've never heard of and smiles at me, the dimple in his chin flattening.
But he knows nothing. What Mick senses as contrary simply is what it is. I'm not playing hard to get, I'm simply calling out the shots of whatever this is. I don't have time to play metaphorical chess with him. I have patients to help and dances to grind through to get my mom in a place where I won't have to worry.
In all that, I can't lie to myself and say I don't want what he offers. McKenna doesn't have to know about me. He won't care anyway. A man like him can have anyone he wants.
The wine comes, and he swirls his sample around, stealing a breath from the top. After McKenna’s imperceptible nod, the waiter fills the glass the rest of the way and leaves to give us time to drink without ordering right away.
I look away from Jared for the first time that evening and gaze into the black velvet view. The sky is sprinkled with stars, some of their glory stolen by the lights of the city. The slowly spinning top of the Space Needle gives us bites of the beautiful city in appetizer-sized chunks.
�
�I'm not playing a game,” Mick says.
I turn back to him, shaking my head. “I don't think so... Mick.” I gather up my courage. “You're not guilty. You're a rich guy. Really rich.” His smile fades, and I almost feel bad about what I'm going to say. “You can have any woman, and a lot of them will say yes because of what you are rather than who.”
He nods, but his face takes on a grim edge.
“I don't care about your money.” I've never meant anything more.
He sees it and can't hide his surprise. “I believe you. I don't know why... but you're different than the others.” He takes an unhurried sip of wine, his eyes gleaming at me over the crystal rim.
“Than the others?”
He spreads his large hands away from his body. “I didn't mean there's been a bevy of women.”
My eyes lift to his.
He has the grace to look embarrassed. “There have been other women, of course.”
“Yes, I'm aware.” I mean, look at him!
“There's nothing I can do to not be what I am. I'll never meet anyone on equal footing.”
“Well tonight's your lucky night.”
His brows shoot to his hairline. When the waiter returns, Mick’s hard glance makes him meld into the background again. I don't try to hide my smile. Mick’s is sure of people's acquiescence. It's kind of disturbing. But I'm so off-kilter I can roll with whatever this strange night throws my way.
“Oh really?” he asks. His face shows he hasn’t been surprised in a long time. About anything.
“Yes.” My hands are beyond damp. I'm so sure, yet so nervous. “We can date.”
“Who says I want to date you?”
I'm not going to outline the method to the madness. Maybe it's just a fancy way of substituting dating for screwing to him because there's an historical precedent; where there is none for me.
“Please.” I lean forward, my forearms pressing against the tablecloth. “You say you're not guilty, you're so rich you probably poop one hundred dollar bills in your 24K toilet, and you’ve been with so many women they're quantified as 'others'.”
Mick cocks his chin back and laughs, full throated from his chiseled belly. “Tell me how you really feel.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle, and I smile at him.
It's so liberating to say what I think. I wish I'd tried it before.
“I want to know why you want a girl like me. When you can have anyone.”
Mick searches my face again before his eyes dip to the cleavage I offer him with my posture. I don't move; I let him take it in. His eyes rove up my arms, delicately constructed with fine muscles from ballet and athletics. Finally that gaze continues to my hair that looks like melting caramel in candlelight.
Mick's eyes lock with mine. “I don't want anyone.”
He wants me. It's in his face, the determined set of his jaw. Those eyes that never waver, soften, or fall from mine with the rawness of my words.
In fact, if I were to guess, I'd say the enigma I represent is part of it. Though he might not acknowledge it.
“I don't want a relationship.” I say it because even if the great Jared McKenna wants a relationship, he can’t have one with me. I can at least be honest with that much.
He exhales sharply, his eyes piercing me. “That's fine.”
I lean back, feeling a vague sense of disappointment. Ignoring it, I ask, “So what now?”
“We enjoy each other's company. You are agreeable to that?”
I grin. Oh... this can work. As long as he doesn't figure out that I'm dancing at his revolving lap club. Thorn didn't seem interested in revealing our arrangement for reasons unknown. If he can keep his perverted trap shut, this might work. I certainly don't think Mick will be interested if he finds out that I'm one of his dancers. My mom can be secure for the short future she has left. I can throw caution to the wind because the rules of life no longer apply to me. I have free license to experience whatever I want.
I nod. “Yes.”
A smile plays over his lips as Mick orders for me. He's good at taking care of everything.
There are some things that a person can't manipulate.
~ 10 ~
I forget I'm with a billionaire. I forget what Doctor Matthews told me.
I even forget my mom.
For one night.
Mick makes me laugh. I just hope he doesn't make me cry.
I won't fool myself though.
We move through the tables of the other diners, their eyes on Mick then me. He drapes my shawl around my shoulders as we step into the elevator, and I shiver as his rough palms slide against my skin.
I enjoy the view as the elevator eases its way to the ground. Not the view of the city but the view of Mick as he leans against those fragile looking walls that cage us with an apparent indifference for his own safety. I stand in the middle of the elevator and watch him watching me. Mick's arms are crossed, a new set of cuff links blink back at me in a glittering wink in the cool blue lighting. The elevator kisses the ground with a soft nudge, and the doors slide open into the 60s retro décor.
Mick takes my elbow and I stop walking. I look around for Henry, scanning the parking for a glimpse of an actual car, wondering where he's parked.
He turns back, his large hand cupping the boniest part of me. “Henry can take you home.”
“Oh... you're... are you coming with?”
He nods, and I notice his lips twitch as he tows me along. “He drove me here first then went back for you.”
I'm so glad I seem to amuse the hell out of him.
I frown but allow him to lead me to the limo. Henry stands sentinel beside it, resplendent in a tux. It seems too elegant a wardrobe for his position, but he seems comfortable—as if Henry just grew out of the ground beside the sleek length of the limo, two halves of a whole.
“Sir,” Henry says with a slight nod.
Mick gives him an affectionate slap on the back before he hops into the limo. The sight of it twists Henry's lips into an almost-grin. I see the affection Henry has for Mick, and it makes me wonder.
Actually, everything about Jared McKenna makes me wonder.
Mick takes my hands as I slide in opposite him; he holds my hands and lets me drop when my butt hovers an inch above the plush leather upholstery. I laugh as I sink down and catch his eyes gleaming like obsidian marbles. I can't make out what he's feeling. I want to.
Anyone who can make me forget the things Mick has is a tonic I need.
And there I am, back to the addiction that is him.
The limousine pulls away from the curb, and we cruise through the noise and lights. Walls of people line the sidewalks, crawling to the various destinations in their lives as lights blur in a rainbow of neon and diamonds.
My eyes roam his form. Mick's hands rest with languid casualness on his knees. His socks disappear into soft black leather shoes. I can't tell if they're the same ones I picked money off. I swallow hard, looking at his trim waist, the tie tack securing a red silk so deep it's sunset burnt down to smeared tangerine. It perfectly complements his understated rich copper hair. Finally, my eyes lock with his, and he laughs.
“Did I pass muster?” Mick asks lightly, and a blush flames to life on my cheeks for the second time.
The unwanted heat leaks over into places I don't realize it will. I cross my legs, suffocating my sex as if it'll tell my secrets.
His eyes dip to the movement, and his small smile widens.
I frown, and Mick laughs again.
“Yes,” I say with a perfectly sullen bite.
“What have I done that offends you, Miss Mitchell?”
Everything... nothing.
I can't believe he's still calling me that.
Mick leans forward until our knees are a breath away from touching.
I feel the limousine slowing and blurt, “You're so rich!” I must be insane to say what I'm thinking. A recent trend.
Mick cocks a brow and puts his hand on my knee, barely be
neath the lightweight material of my dress. A soft gasp breaks the seal of my lips as his eyes shift to my mouth, his favorite part of my body. For now.
“You are prejudiced because of my wealth?” Mick asks, and his breath is now on my face, minty and fresh.
I'm in too deep. “Yes. No. I don't know.” I'm so confused. Why do I have to find something so intoxicating when I don't have time to partake?
He cups my chin with his free hand while the other lightly dances over my knee, causing a rush of moisture to my panties. My thighs clench tighter, but nothing numbs the subtle throb.
Mick turns his head, his stubble whispering against my jaw. “Let me kiss you, Miss—”
I interrupt, “Faren.”
His eyes press into mine, stealing my thoughts like water finding a crack in a stone. “Faren.” He says my name like a melody, the heat from his lips a fraction above mine.
I gulp my reluctance like medicine I don't want to take but must. I whisper my response against his skin. “Yes.”
I think he'll crush my mouth, ravage me like I've heard about. Worse—I think he'll be lustful.
I want whatever he'll give me. I admit it.
Mick’s lips move over mine, rolling the softness of his mouth over my lips and attaching to the arch of my cupid's bow. He moves to the corners of my mouth and pecks back and forth as I remain placid. My hands clench to keep from launching at him like a ravaging animal.
The limo parks.
Mick moves his hand farther up my dress, his fingertips grazing where my garter attaches to the stocking. He slides a finger under the circular attachment as his other hand circles the nape of my neck. He licks beneath my jaw before he dots my mouth with another bead of heat and flesh. My hands break away from my lap and slap the leather as I lean back, eyes shut as I pant. Mick's mastery turns to the deep hollow of my neck, my heart rate no longer a secret to his mouth.
His tongue.
“Touch me,” he commands.
There's no way I can say no. Any argument was lost long ago.