"Sounds like a plan then." Her words full of disappointment with me. "Don't forget that we need to set a date to plan out the nursery. Oh, and make sure to tell Cutter that I said hi."
She's never going to drop this Cutter thing.
"Bye, Bitsy," I say dryly.
Another authoritative knock on the door startles me.
"I said let's go, princess."
Sheesh, he's bossy.
I examine myself closely in the mirror, tugging up on the band of my jumpsuit, making sure it's securely in place and that my strapless bra isn't showing. Then I check my fingernails for snags and double check my teeth in the mirror to make sure there's no lip gloss on them. I'm about to repeat my stalling ritual for a second time, just to get on Cutter's nerves a little bit, until I hear several clicks disengaging the bathroom door lock. I instinctually use all of my body weight to lean on the door and keep it shut.
"Step away from the door, Sloan," Cutter orders from the other side.
"Are you crazy? I'm still using the bathroom!" I protest. My heart racing from a mixture of fury and fear.
"No you aren't. You've washed your hands about five times and checked that lipstick of yours probably five more."
"Just wait a minute, I'm coming out right–"
Before I can finish my sentence, Cutter pushes his way inside of the bathroom. The weight of my body against the door is no match for the strength of his massive arms. He shuts the door behind him and stares at me with an intensity that makes me jittery, but I suppose that's the point.
The look he's giving me. It's kind of . . . wicked and so dirty that I can almost envision myself tied up and spread eagle across a bed, a table, or the hood of a car. I just get the feeling that he's into shit like that.
He moves slowly toward me like a predatory wolf, as I back up by mere millimeters into the corner away from him. I wouldn't say that I'm frightened of him, but it's just a natural reaction to move back when someone of his size and girth starts moving into your personal space. Plus there isn't much room to move in here.
Our bodies are flush against each other, and I instinctively swallow a breath when he raises one of his hands toward my face. That makes him crook a smile, as if he's enjoying how uncomfortable he's making me. He uses that same hand to firmly lift and hold my chin, and then he takes the pad of his thumb and slowly begins rubbing the velvet red lip gloss off of my bottom lip.
He does this silently.
While I gasp.
Then he repeats the same thing to the top one.
His lethal eyes laser focused on mine the entire time.
"You don't need to wear all this makeup," he growls. "You're fucking hotter without it. Now let's go."
Nineteen
Cutter
Every time I put eyes on Sloan Pearson, my dick gets instantly hard, without my brain's consent or permission. I'll admit that the head below my waist has a dirty little mind of its own. It's actually kind of funny in a metaphorical way if you think about it. Sloan makes a living selling drugs that help men get an erection, and all I have to do is look at her to achieve the same result.
Even though I've already committed every one of her curves to memory, when Sloan exits the bathroom she looks like a shiny, new toy to me. A toy I desperately want to play with. One that would distract me from all the other toys I should be playing with. A toy that I'd beat all the other kids asses on the playground to keep to myself.
Tonight she's wearing a simple black strapless jumpsuit that cinches her small waist but then drapes loosely down her long, lithe legs. It's tasteful, not tight and tacky, and expertly shows off her slim neckline and delicate collarbone. She's also wearing a pair of black strappy "fuck me" high heels on her feet, and her full lips are painted a glossy deep blood red.
Those lips.
It gives me the chills just imagining what those cherry colored lips would look like wrapped completely around my dick. Sucking the life out of it. Savoring the taste. I know what I'd do. What I'd like to do. And I'm confident that she'd enjoy that shit too. I'd slide my hand onto the crown of her head and grip her hair at the roots tightly.
Guiding her mouth down my dick.
Controlling each and every exquisite stroke.
And after that I'd get really fucking creative.
Unfortunately for me, my wet dream girl is dressed like this on the arm of someone else. For someone else. That's why I smeared that sexy cherry red lipstick off with my thumb. It was a small piece of her that I could take away from him tonight. I have to laugh at myself, because that was definitely some territorial caveman shit to do, which I don't have a rational explanation for doing other than it gave me complete fucking satisfaction. Maybe no man really knows the reasons why they preoccupy themselves over a woman, but I've been curious about Sloan from the moment we met.
If she were any other woman, I would have locked that bathroom door and been inside of her in less than fifteen seconds. Whether she was on a date or not, I wouldn't have given a fuck. Don't get me wrong, I only take what women are willing to give, but when a woman chooses to give herself to me, you won't find me asking a lot of questions about who's been there before or who might be waiting in the wings. I don't stay around long enough for any of that shit to ever matter.
Yet there's something inexplicable about Sloan which makes me want to slow down, take my time, and play with her. Like a cat toying with a mouse, I'm taking exquisite pleasure in the chase. Cornering her, then letting her scamper away–and starting all over again. It's been several months now since we met at the club for the first time, and I've enjoyed each and every one of our brief encounters. Of course I'm not sure that she would say the same. For some reason, I think she hates to see me coming.
I escort Sloan back down the stairs and into the vestibule. She doesn't grab my arm this time, but I make sure to initiate contact by placing my hand along the arch of her lower back as she makes her way down the steps. It's quieter now and most people have returned back to their seats, except for the few stragglers finishing up their drinks at the bar, as well as the last few women still waiting to use the bathroom.
"Thanks for the use of the facilities," she offers reluctantly.
It's obvious by the way she's avoiding direct eye contact with me that she's either affected or offended by me. I'm not entirely sure which one. Maybe it's the way I touched her lips without her permission, or maybe she's wondering whether or not I overheard her little phone conversation with Elizabeth while she was in the bathroom. Maybe it's both.
If she's wondering what I thought of what she said in there. I didn't like what little I heard. Sloan is not the type of woman who should have to force herself to date or fuck anyone, especially the suit that she's out with tonight. It screams of complacency, settling, and husband hunting. Traits that usually turn me immediately off, but I wish someone would tell my dick that, because it's still very much interested in one Sloan Pearson.
"You're welcome," I say as I reluctantly slide my hand away from her back. Raking my eyes across her bare shoulders and watching as small goose bumps appear. Goose bumps that I've put there.
So responsive.
Her eyes finally flick up to meet mine.
"Why . . . why are you looking at me like that?" she asks nervously. Unconsciously brushing two of her fingers over her lips.
Because I want to taste you, then bend you over, and taste you again.
"Like what." I feign ignorance.
"Never mind," she huffs. Her cheeks flushed.
Her phone rings. She mutters something about it being another pain-in-the-ass blocked call, then stashes it back in her purse. My inner alarm goes off.
"Do you get private calls a lot?"
"Not really, why?"
"When did the calls start?"
"It's not Damien."
"When did they start?"
"I'm not sure."
"If you start getting them every day will you tell me?"
"Sure, but–"
/>
"And can I give you a piece of advice?" It's actually a rhetorical question, because I'm going to say what I have to say anyway.
"Advice about what?"
I stare quietly at her for a moment, swallowing a lump in my throat, because when those smudged red lips of hers finished mouthing the word what–I swear that my dick just jumped, and then blood rushed to my head.
Both of my heads.
"You said you were going to give me a piece of advice?" she repeats impatiently tapping her foot.
"Yes."
Dick. Still. Moving.
"Well, what is it?"
I do my best at discreetly adjusting myself.
"A woman like you doesn't have to work so hard."
"Work hard at what?" she asks as her eyes desperately attempt to look anywhere but at my hands.
"Searching for Mr. Right."
Her eyes pop back up.
"What gives you the idea that's what I'm doing?" she asks as if she's appalled by the question.
"Any idiot can see that's what you're doing. You're on a date with a man who is marginally attractive, who you have nothing in common with, and who is stupid enough to allow you to wander around the front lobby of this place unescorted looking like you do. You don't believe in love, but it looks to me like you believe in something much worse–mediocrity."
I can practically see the steam rising from her ears. She's pissed. I guess I have that effect on people (especially women) a lot, because I have basically zero filter. I just speak what's on my mind and deal with the consequences later. But I've found that life is so much simpler when you operate that way. There's no room for misunderstandings.
"He's . . . far from an idiot."
"But he is stupid." I grin. "Can we at least agree on that?"
"He's a wonderful man," she counters defensively. Almost angrily. Which in turn makes me pissed. Why is she defending this dude? She's fooling herself if she thinks that something between them can turn out any way but badly.
"That's the best you could come back with? That he's wonderful? Interesting how that's not exactly the person you were describing to Elizabeth when you were on the phone just now. What's so wonderful about planning on faking it in bed? As if you already know that the suit's dick will never be able to satisfy you. That's actually the saddest thing I think I've ever heard."
"Mind your business!" she admonishes me. "I knew you were eavesdropping."
"Just admit that the doctor is boring the fuck out of you."
"My date is not boring. He's normal. He doesn't live on the edge, bashing people's heads in for a living like some people," she snidely retorts. "He's a healer. You wouldn't understand a man like him."
Where does she get this shitty idea of who I am? And since when is handing out Viagra prescriptions considered God's work.
"I'm a successful and respected entrepreneur in this city. I don't bash people's heads in for a living."
"Now we both know that's a lie."
Okay, maybe it's a little bit of a lie.
"I will most certainly bash someone's head in if I have to or if I choose to. I think you can attest to how and when I choose to use my skills, since I just recently saved your ass–but it's not my daily grind. I think you underestimate my ability to talk people into anything. That's what the king gets paid the big bucks for. The power to persuasively fix any situation using my God given charm and wit."
I offer her one of my thousand-watt smiles. The smile that makes everyone feel safe but especially women. Like they should trust me. Like I'm their big brother, best friend, and boyfriend all rolled into one. The smile I flash the moment before I talk a woman right out of their panties and into my bed.
"Funny, I keep hearing about all of the king's so-called charisma, yet your charms don't seem to have any effect on me. I must be immune."
My body biologically responds to a challenge. It just does. Especially because it's coming from this woman. I have the strongest urge to pull her close and shove my tongue down her smart-ass little throat, but I compromise with my primitive desires and simply move in a little closer to her. Feeling exactly what I did the last time I was this close to her.
Heat.
Kinetic energy.
And pheromones bouncing off of her like a siren's call.
I've been strongly attracted to certain women before but damn. Whether she annoys me or amuses me, every time I'm within ten feet of this woman I have the deep desire to pound my chest, throw her over my shoulder, and club any man who dares to challenge me into a bloody pulp. And when her almond shaped eyes finally pop up to meet mine straight on, that's when I'm assured of something that I wasn't as nearly confident about a few days ago.
I see it.
Excitement, desire, and maybe a smidgeon of healthy fear. If I were a betting man I'd say that Sloan wants me badly, or at least she's mildly curious, but it scares the hell out of her.
As I move farther in, I place my palm on her chest above her breasts and get my confirmation. "Perhaps you're not as immune as you think. Your heart is telling me something different. It's racing."
She jumps back.
"No it isn't, and don't touch me."
I move only one final step forward, keeping my hands by my sides, and my lips very close to her earlobe.
"Don't worry, princess. The next time I touch you it will be because you either ask me politely or beg me angrily."
Panic settles into the corners of her eyes. She's going to run from me like her life depends on it. Sure enough when the houselights start to flicker to let us know the second part of the show is about to begin, she bolts for her seat without even as much as a goodbye.
"Excuse me," she says urgently to all of the spectators moving at a snail's pace down the aisle. "Excuse me, please."
I track her as she moves swiftly through the aisle. Mostly because I can't take my eyes off of her, and partly because I want to see more of the asswipe she's here with tonight. Usually Sloan meets her men at Lotus. The kind of men whose only concern is how fast they're going to make their first million during the day and how many women they can get to spread their legs at night. Never caring about the woman's pleasure. Barely even asking their names.
These are the kinds of douchebags I've watched Sloan talk to. Dance with. Flirt with. Complete wastes of her time, but easy enough for me to scare away. I've done it countless times unbeknownst to her, and even if she discovered what I was doing, I wouldn't care.
As soon as I spot her date again, I take a really good look at him and realize that this guy just may be different. He looks different. She didn't meet him at the club. In fact he doesn't look like he's been inside of a nightclub in years. Based on the soft look in his eyes when she sits back down, they may even have a history. I heard her mention a doctor on the phone with Elizabeth. Is he someone she works with or an old flame?
After I'm back in my seat, I can't help but keep my eye on her and her dry-as-toast date during the entire second half of the performance. Actually it's him I'm watching. He's definitely into her. I know the body language of my species well. His body is slightly leaning into hers, so that he can whisper some irrelevant shit to her throughout the performance. He's almost salivating at the mouth. He wants inside of her badly.
It makes me recall the kiss that Sloan and I shared. I wanted inside of her badly that day too. So the sight of this guy obviously feeling the same way about her is making my eye twitch which is always the precursor to an unpleasant interaction. I need to leave as soon as the show ends or something bad is bound to happen.
What am I doing? I'm losing my shit over a woman I've shared one kiss with. A woman who isn't mine. A woman that will never be mine.
"Who are you staring at?" my client asks with the loudest whisper ever.
"No one," I say grumpily. "Why aren't you watching the dancers?"
"Why aren't you?"
Because neither of us really wants to be here, but we have to be. My client, professional baseball
star Roberto Mendez, and I are sitting in front of his club's general manager and wife per their invitation. Mendez was supposed to be here with a respectable woman on his arm since he and his wife broke up, but that's one of his issues–he doesn't do respectable. It's my job to make sure that he does.
Even though I've pulled back from my responsibilities at the club and the tapas lounge, it would have been totally unfair and unprofessional to abandon Mendez. Neither Camden nor Roman have any idea how to handle him and he pays us good money to make sure he's managed.
If I hadn't reeled him in tonight, he was going to bring a woman here, who if memory serves, has had the distinct pleasure of receiving a couple of my twenty-dollar bills inside the crotch of her panties at my favorite strip bar. So needless to say, I put the kibosh on Roberto's date plans and went with him instead at the last minute. Not my idea of a good time, but it's my job to babysit him and make sure that he and the general manager get the photo opportunity that the ball club's been wanting for the media. A shot that appears as if contract negotiations between Mendez and the ball club are moving forward like clockwork. Like they're homies hanging out, even though it's totally staged.
"Oh, now I see why you're looking over there." He smirks. "She's definitely one hot piece of–"
"Watch your mouth," I warn.
"She looks familiar."
"I said mind your business."
"Watch my mouth. Mind my business." Mendez starts cracking up. "You're mighty touchy about a woman who's here with somebody else. You losing your touch, King Cutty?"
I watch like a dickhead as the suit amateurishly puts his arm around the back of Sloan's chair. His fingers just inches away from her bare skin. I can't believe that old high school trick actually still works. Not only does she allow him to keep his arm there, but I'll be damned if . . . she actually leans into it.
Fuck me.
"Shhh!" The general manager's wife scolds the two of us from behind. "You both are being too loud."
My phone dings.
It's Roman.
Roman: You could have given me a heads up that DJ Khaled was spinning tonight. I thought he was coming next month.
The King Brothers Boxed Set Page 32