by Diana Seere
“We rode home together. I dropped her off at her apartment. She told me the kiss under the mistletoe had been a mistake. She shouldn’t have done it, but the pressure at the club made her think it was expected. She was being…” Lilah yawned, her neck stretching in the moonlight as if it were a piece of performance art. Creamy skin glowed in the night and Derry found himself transfixed as if watching a private performance by one of the world’s master artists. He ached to paint that neck.
“Nice.” Gavin finished Lilah’s sentence for her with a tone so mismatched Derry started slightly. “She was being nice.” His brother managed to make such a benevolent word sound like an insult.
“Nice girls don’t kiss like that,” Derry muttered. But the really naughty ones do.
“Jess doesn’t kiss anyone like that,” Lilah said earnestly. She scooted her shapely ass to one side as Gavin sat next to her, his arm wrapping about her shoulders, his lips planting a kiss on her temple.
A tiny bubble inside Derry’s chest popped, the feeling so light and feathery he might not have noticed it under any other circumstances.
But he did. And it reverberated like a gong. The want. The need. The pure desire for the kind of deep love Gavin and Lilah had found was one treasure no bank account could ever buy. No inheritance could provide it.
“She kissed me like that,” he finally ground out, his words almost an afterthought.
Gavin glared at him, the room spinning with an icy chill that made Derry realize, even in his emotional, boozy haze, that he was a third wheel.
“A formality,” Lilah said, smiling until dimples showed. “You were a formality.”
If Lilah had sucker punched him, she couldn’t have done more damage.
Gavin’s tight jaw and slightly tilted head carried the nonverbal stance of a threat.
“Indeed,” Derry conceded, playing the game, covering for the breathless feeling that turned his lungs into wet tissue paper. Perhaps Jess had really said as much to Lilah, but Derry had felt what he’d felt when he’d kissed Jess. That kiss was anything but formal. Definitely not a performance.
Denial was a powerful force, but love was more powerful.
He jolted.
Love?
“What in the bloody hell is wrong with me?” he murmured as Gavin stood and guided him to the exit.
“I don’t have enough time to list it all,” Gavin said flatly. The elevator doors opened, and Gavin came in close, his hot breath like iron shavings against Derry’s ear. “And you’re going home. The limo’s downstairs. No crashing at my place tonight.”
“That’s it? You’re turning me out in my time of need?” he joked, but the sudden plume of emotion in his chest told him he wasn’t joking.
“You can grab three women anytime you want,” Gavin said, clearing his throat. “Your needs are met elsewhere. Just any woman but Jess. Are we clear?”
The doors closed before Derry could answer.
But I shifted, he wanted to call out. I couldn’t help myself.
I can’t help myself.
It’s all about her.
Her.
Help.
The next night at the club, Jess was closed up tight. Cold and tight. Like a bank vault without a door, a block of ice, a woman in total, absolute control.
Dreams couldn’t touch her here. Even at the Platinum Club, which was designed to satisfy the wildest dreams of so many. But she wasn’t a member. She was one of the cocktail waitresses, and their only dreams were to make other people happy.
People like that movie star chick, Isla, the one Derry had fucked last night. Isla apparently hadn’t gotten nearly enough of her dreams satisfied, because tonight she was drinking glass after glass of the club’s best Chilean wine, complaining about the temperature before sucking it down and demanding another. And Jess had to serve her with a smile, quiet competence, patience, and every outward indication of pleasure.
No problem. Tonight, Jess was a woman in control. An ice woman. She brought the beautiful movie star her drinks, confident she wasn’t betraying a speck of discomfort or burning, seething, loathing disapproval. Isla never even glanced at her.
Gillian, however, was acting strange, perhaps because she was afraid Jess would squeal about her sleeping with a member. She kept shooting Jess tight-lipped glances, eyes tracking her as she moved from bar to patron. After about an hour, Jess got tired of the surveillance and confronted her coworker near the back of the bar.
“Is there a problem?” Jess asked her.
“I don’t know,” Gillian said. “Is there?”
Jess studied her, only now noticing that she wore no lipstick, had shadows under her eyes, and displayed only one pair of tiny studs in her ears. For Gillian, that was like being butt-naked.
Feeling unexpected compassion for her, Jess lowered her voice. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to say anything.” Why shouldn’t she feel compassion? What did she care what Gillian did in her free time? Even if it was with her future brother-in-law?
Why would she possibly care?
Ice woman.
“There’s nothing to say,” Gillian said, looking away. “He couldn’t get it up.”
The sudden vision of Derry’s enormous cock made Jess flush. (Why wouldn’t it be enormous? It wasn’t wishful thinking or anything, just a sensible assumption.) Then she realized what Gillian had said. Enormous and flaccid? “He couldn’t…”
“Maybe he’s gay. I offered to suck him off and—pfft! Nothing.”
Jess’s mouth went dry. Although it wouldn’t have been if she’d been the one sucking—
No, damn it. ICE WOMAN.
“He’s not gay,” Jess said. “Just because he lost interest in… in having sex at that moment.”
“Before you blame me,” Gillian said coldly, narrow-eyed gaze turning to the brooding, boozing Isla in the lounge, “remember I wasn’t the only woman who gave it her all. The only one with a brain, but his cock doesn’t care about brains.”
“But he does.” The words popped out of Jess’s mouth before she could remind herself about the ice-woman thing again. She felt herself flush, cursing her fair complexion that would suggest she gave a fig about Derry and his gigantic, unsatisfied cock or how he felt about women with or without a functioning cerebral cortex. “Never mind, I guess you’re right. He’s gay. Obviously.”
Now Gillian’s narrow gaze was fixed on Jess. “Or wanting someone else,” she said slowly, raising an unusually natural eyebrow. “Someone who’s playing hard to get.”
Jess’s heart felt like it was beating in the back of her throat, cutting off her airflow. Was Gillian suggesting Derry wanted her? And that she was manipulating him, trying to fan the flames?
“I’m not playing,” Jess said in a low, hard voice.
“Maybe that’s exactly what he needs.” And after pulling that pin from the grenade, Gillian adjusted her tray on her forearm and sauntered away.
Jess’s legs felt unsteady, remembering the groping in the elevator, the orgiastic display en route to the limo.
All that, and he’d failed to follow through? But why would he do all that if he hadn’t really wanted—
He’d known you were watching.
No, no, no. It wasn’t about her. It couldn’t be. Not the way Gillian had implied. If Derry had put on a show of his sexual perversions, appetites, and popularity, it was only to soothe his pride after she’d humiliated him under the mistletoe.
Then why hadn’t he taken advantage of the situation later? Once he’d freed his colossal cock from his pants, why turn… soft?
Alcohol. It had to be the alcohol. Gillian was screwing with her head. It wasn’t anything to do with Jess. Men who drank as much as Derry had that night simply couldn’t expect their sexual organs to perform. It was biologically impossible. She turned back to the bar, rotating her tray in her unsteady hands, struggling to remember her drink orders.
No, it was all right. She’d served everyone already. All she had to do was check on h
er tables, see if anyone new had sat down—
Before she pivoted on her heel to face the lounge, she felt him arrive. Like a breeze, an embrace, a song. Her entire body hummed as if his powerful hands were playing every string in her soul.
Get a fucking grip. Ice woman. For God’s sake.
Holding her shoulders back, she sucked in an empowering breath and strode over to him. “Good evening, Mr. Stanton,” she said, managing to sound impressively calm. “The usual?” Which would be whisky if he was alone, and then, a few minutes later, whatever his female companion was ordering, since the alone time never lasted longer than one drink.
“Gatorade,” he growled, not looking at her.
She thought she’d misheard. Perhaps it was a Chilean vintage she was unfamiliar with. “Could you repeat that?”
His head snapped up. Dark eyes locked her in place. “Gatorade. Red. No ice.”
Professionalism came to her rescue. “Diet or regular?”
“Are you playing with me?”
Her stupid cheeks got warm again. “There’s more than one kind,” she said. Because there was, and she couldn’t help but say so.
“Are you saying I need to go on a diet?” he asked, smiling at her with his mouth but not, definitely not, his eyes.
“I beg your pardon, sir. You’d like the one with fifty-six grams of sugar. Of course. Any particular varietal of ‘red’, or shall I assume anything will do?”
His voice dropped another octave. “As it so happens, not just anything will do,” he said. “Do I seem like the type of man eager to consume whatever throws itself in front of him?”
Given they were only talking about flavored sugar water, her heart was beating much too hard. He could probably see its imprint through the fabric of her blouse.
She wanted to tell him that, because he was a man whore, she did expect him to consume whomever threw herself at him.
But he was a club member, and almost-family member, and it didn’t matter how gargantuan his own member—
She lost her train of thought. Where was she? Her heart was bumping her blouse again. That was all wrong. If she said that, he might interpret it as playing hard to get. Not to mention unprofessional.
“Was there a particular flavor you had in mind?” she asked, flinching inwardly as she heard sexual undertones in her words. It was impossible with this man not to hear sexual undertones in everything. It wasn’t her, it was him. Not her fault. She tried to think about ice again.
He crossed his arms over his massive chest and stared at her. After a long pause, he finally said, “No, I apologize. You were right. I’m not particular. I enjoy all kinds. It’s a gift, really, to be so… flexible.”
Now go and get the drink, she told herself. The server doesn’t need to say anything else. Go go go.
Her feet didn’t move. His gravitational pull was too strong.
She took a step closer. His eyes widened. Darkened. She thought that beneath his crossed arms, she could see his chest begin to rise and fall more deeply.
Would he… Did he really…
He’d been with the most beautiful, most coveted women in the world. And now he was turning to her to slake that unquenchable thirst.
If Gillian could risk it, why not her?
Just as he uncrossed his arms and began to reach a hand out to her, a buried memory dragged her back into the past.
Rich, good-looking guys. A party. There was laughter. Horrible laughter.
Hadn’t one of them said something like what Derry had just said? I’m not particular. But he’d been joking. It had all been a joke.
Taking a step back, then another one, she moved away, bumping into somebody. The movie star, who recoiled in disgust, then continued her journey to Derry’s lap.
“Be careful,” Isla snapped, never looking at her.
“Thank you,” Jess said. “I will.” She spun around and hurried away to get the Gatorade.
Gatorade? What the hell was he thinking? Red sugar water wouldn’t quench this thirst. Not when he was parched for Jess. He needed to taste her again, to run his tongue across those soft, lush lips, to be invited into the divine sanctuary of her mouth, to worship at the altar between her thighs.
“You need to replace your neck with a swivel chair, Derry,” Isla said in her bored voice. Or, rather, just her voice. She always sounded bored.
“What?” She made even less sense than usual. How much of that wine had she been drinking?
“You twist your neck any further watching that waitress, and it will snap off. Unless it’s nice and soft like your cock was last night.” She reached between his legs and grabbed his junk.
His junk tried to crawl away from her.
“See? Useless. You’re getting booooooring, Derry.” Isla flung the sentence at him like a monkey at the zoo, throwing feces.
And, in return, he felt a sense of primal disgust rise up in his throat.
What was he doing?
What the fuck was he doing?
“If I’m so boring, Isla dear, go find someone who will titillate you.” He tweaked one of her nipples and fumbled as his fingers caught metal. Her nipple-clamp fetish. Ah.
“You’re wearing those?” he said in a harsh voice meant to mock. Her eyes flew open in alarm.
“What?”
“Must be Friday. You’re so… predictable, Isla.” He added the same condescending huff she and Freddi attached to every third sentence out of their mouth at most nightclubs.
She jumped to her feet and grabbed her clutch. “How dare you speak to me like this!”
Her raised voice turned a few heads. Not a single server or bartender watched them, though. Eva had trained them all very, very well. Never react. Be discreet. Let the patrons preserve as much dignity as possible.
“And your limp dick has turned you into a joke!” Isla yelled, emphasizing the two words she most wanted others to hear.
The staff might be discreet.
Isla? Not so much.
If the gloves were off, and Isla’s claws certainly were showing, might as well go for the jugular.
He stood, towering over her. “Whose fault was that, Isla? Too many lip treatments and enough Botox to freeze the stock market will cause a downturn.” He looked at his crotch, then wagged a finger in her face. “Tsk tsk tsk.”
A patron guffawed, his baritone triggering an avalanche of mocking laughter. Women tittered.
Isla turned into a burning fury.
A burning, Botoxed fury. Her face was fifty shades of red, but she couldn’t express anything beyond a fish face and a look of constipation.
Out of nowhere, a bucket of red sugar water flew into his face, blinding and drenching him.
“Ms. Monroe!”
He couldn’t see. Could barely speak, and was that crushed ice caught in his outer ear? But he knew that voice. “I am so sorry that Mr. Stanton is mistreating you like this! Are you OK?”
Jess.
He opened his eyes to see a livid Isla, half-covered in red Gatorade, turning her head to and fro to spread her rage-filled, pinched expression between the two of them.
“And Mr. Stanton, you should know better!” Jess added. “Ms. Monroe is a member here, and no one should treat members with the kind of disdain you’ve shown her.”
“You certainly don’t apply that same principle to me!” he barked, surprising himself.
Isla faced Jess and took her empty hand in both of hers. “Thank you. He’s been beastly. An absolute beast!”
You don’t know the half of it, he thought.
Isla played the room perfectly, the laughter dying out into murmurs as opinion swept in its inevitable pendulum. She looked around and began to pretend to cry as she reached for the bottle of wine and upended it, guzzling it like, well—
Gatorade.
Her face looked like it was melting, and no tears came out, but two men approached with linen handkerchiefs, neatly ironed. She took them with gratitude, dropping Jess’s hand like a hot potato and wa
lking away with what Derry knew—and Isla certainly knew—were two oil billionaires from Russia.
“Derry!” Eva’s hiss was as controlled as possible under the circumstances. Thank God the club had a strict no-cell-phone-video rule. “Why on earth are you belittling and berating poor Ms. Monroe?”
“Excuse me?” He felt like Thor himself spoke the words from Asgard via his throat.
“Shhhhh.” Jess and Eva tried to quell him.
“I will not be shushed!” he thundered. “Isla started it!”
“You sound like a petulant child.” Eva’s words were spears to the psyche. He reached up and was greeted by a series of red drops, all falling from the coils of his wavy, dark hair.
“And you look like you’re doing your best Carrie imitation,” Jess said under her breath. She shot him a tight, professional smile that made it very clear that she was having a delightful time pretending to rescue one patron while utterly humiliating him.
Again.
Control. He needed to establish control over this mess. When in doubt, turn into a rake. A lecherous playboy. A man with uncontrollable erotic urges.
A perfect beast of a man.
He ostentatiously took her in, eyes raking over the fine swells of her hips embraced by the tight black satin of her thigh-length cocktail dress. Her flesh was a vision of cream and curve in his mind that his big paws could grasp and hold on to while she rode him. His breathing slowed as his eyes focused only on her, the sticky red mess of his face nothing compared to the roar of red blood that flushed his cock upright and hard, tight and full, pressing against the zipper of his pants and begging for release.
The curl of her delicate skin between neck and ear begged for his tongue, just like the sweet parting of her thighs would give him an ambrosia he could imagine now, as he took in the contoured flesh of her exposed calf, his own fantasies forced to fill in the blanks of her body.
When he finally—finally, with an aching slowness that made him nearly come in his pants like an untrained teenager in the throes of hormones and frenzy—looked at her face, he saw his own hunger mirrored there. No mocking. No humiliation. Just the naked, raw awareness that he was reading her soul, her flesh, her mind, and her divine, tender heart.