by Ember Leigh
I grab London’s hand as she starts to weave away from me. I want her close. Not because I think I’ll lose her. Because I found my fucking window.
Surprise shines on her face as she looks back over her shoulder at me. I slide my fingers up her arm, before bringing my hand to rest on her hip. “Stay close. I don’t want to lose you.”
Her sea-foam gaze searches my face. “I won’t lose you.”
I clench my jaw, telling myself not to kiss her while she’s tipping her head back to look at me, asking me all sorts of questions in the heavy silence between us. God, she’s beautiful. I squeeze the top of her hip, like reminding her to move.
She stumbles into motion. I keep my hand securely on her hip as she leads us through the crowd. When my hand slips off her, she reaches behind, searching it out again. Her cool fingers lace through mine, and I watch the back of her head, studying the sparkling blonde tresses, willing her to turn around so I can give her the kiss that’s dangling off my lips for her.
But she doesn’t turn around. When we reach the bar, I let go of her hand and fill the space beside her. She doesn’t look at me, just gets to work making eye contact with a bartender. The drummer is the only thing I can hear over the noise of my barely bridled lust. Thum thum thum. The singer’s voice is a distant androgynous wail.
The only thing I can see is London. The heat of her hip against my hand practically left char marks. The bartender arrives and she leans forward over the bar to shout her order, offering me the tempting curve of her ass in that pencil skirt. I ogle freely. I’m way past the point where I can do the right thing.
“I’ll pay,” I tell her when she’s standing straight again. “Just leave the tab open.”
“Too late,” she says, batting her eye lashes. “I got one round in on ya.”
One round, which means she’s leaving the door open for more. A moment later, a pitcher of beer arrives with two plastic cups. She scoops it all up and sends me a meaningful look.
“Can I trust you not to get lost in the crowd?”
“I’ll follow the blue suede heels,” I promise her. She offers a small smile and begins weaving through the crowd. I follow the heels as much as her hourglass figure. My cock is trapped beneath my belt buckle, and I’m relieved when she leads us to a round bar table with two high stools facing the band. She sets everything down, and I slip my coat off, draping it over the stool before I sit down.
“Drink one cup,” she commands, slipping out of her leather jacket, “and then I want to hear one confession.”
“One confession? Of what?”
“Of whatever you choose.” She pours two healthy plastic cups of grade A machine piss. “It’s your call.” She lifts her cup to toast, and our drinks touch. She’s got a mischievous sparkle in her eye that I could watch for damn near the rest of my life, and if being with her meant tapping into feeling like this with any regularity, I’d marry her on the spot. That would solve my problem with the foundation and give me the added bonus of spending the rest of my life with a witty and sparkling bombshell.
Thoughts of the upcoming interview with the foundation make my chest tighten. I take a healthy gulp of my beer, focusing on the band as they wrap up their song with a flourish of cymbals. The crowd around us erupts into cheers.
When she nudges me, I know I’ve taken too long to respond to her question. “Come on, Dr. Dom.”
“What is this, truth or dare?”
A brow lifts. “Maybe it is.”
“Then I choose a dare.”
She scoffs. “Fine. I dare you to unbutton another button on your shirt.”
I do exactly as she asks, and her gaze homes in on the newly exposed sliver of chest. It seems London likes what she sees. And god, I love giving it to her.
“That was too easy,” I say. “And now it’s my turn. Truth or dare?”
She narrows her eyes. “Truth.”
I search her face as I struggle to think of the best question. There are so may inappropriate things I want to ask her. At the top of my list: would you come home with me? “Have you ever slept with a client before?”
Her cheeks go pink. I can’t tell if that’s damning or sheer embarrassment. “Never. And I never will.”
Thud. That’s the sound of the door slamming shut between us. Except I’m pretty sure I know how to pick the lock.
“Never say never,” I tell her, tipping more beer into my mouth.
“If I want to remain relevant in this industry, it has to be never. Now you. Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
She cocks her head just as the band flares up with a new song. A throaty, rocking rendition of “Back to Black,” à la Amy Winehouse. Suddenly, the lead singer is wearing a beehive wig. “Do you really want the position on the board?”
Her question is a good-natured spear lobbed into the middle of my chest. My gaze falls to the clear amber beer in my cup, and I swirl it a few times. What do I have to lose by lying to her? For once, it feels okay to open up a little. Loosen the strings that are bound around my heart all day, every day.
“No.” I take another swig of beer, the truth bubbling up faster than I can control. “They’re a prestigious bunch of status whores. But I’ll make history if I get it. And that’s what I’m going for.”
She watches me for a moment, resting her chin in her palm. “What would you rather be doing?”
“No skipping. It’s my turn.” I’ve said too much, so I need to move along quickly. “Truth or dare?”
She holds her palms up. “Sorry. Dare.”
“Dance with me.”
Her face flushes, eyes rounding like she can’t believe her ears. “What did you say?”
“Let’s dance.” I stand up, offering a hand so she doesn’t mistake my intent. Couples are hanging off of each other around the bar, including a small cluster of people right in front of the band. We don’t have to go far. I just need to touch her, in any way possible.
“We only said goodbye with words. I died a hundred times,” the singer croons.
Her brows draw together as she sets her cup down and slides off the stool. She places her small hand in mine hesitantly, and I bring her against me until our chests touch.
“Don’t worry; I’m not going to do any ballroom dancing,” I murmur into her hair above her ear. Her sweet floral scent fills my senses, and for a moment, my entire body is buzzing and hot, anticipating more. I push my palm over the small of her back, and she melts into me, our fingers lacing together as we start a slow back and forth dance.
“I definitely wouldn’t have pegged you for a ballroom dancer.”
“Didn’t Gray tell you? Our mom signed all us boys up for dance lessons when we were younger.” The feminine curves of her body pressed to mine send blood rushing to my groin. I push my hand a little lower, needing to eliminate any vestige of space between us. She tips her head back to look at me.
“What was your specialty?”
I grin. “Polka.”
She snorts. “Seriously?”
“I did a polka competition one year. I was ten. She and my grandma Ethel wanted me to.”
“Did you win?”
I jerk my head. “No. I came in second. My dad was pissed. Second place in the Daly family just means first loser. Grayson teased me about it for a year after.”
“So you two have never gotten along.”
“We always got along by not getting along, if that makes sense. Competing was still our way of bonding.” I pause, more words burbling up inside me. I shouldn’t admit this stuff, but it feels good to get it out. “And it’s better than resentment and silence, which is what we have now.”
“You can change that, you know.”
I’m getting lost in her pretty green gaze. Because it’s too easy to fall headfirst with her. Because I’d do damn near anything she asked of me at this point.
“So you never answered my question,” she says suddenly, the heat of her breath hitting my chin. Our lips are so close, I cou
ld lean forward and coax a kiss from her. My heart is pounding, every inch of my body alert and wanting her.
“What question?”
“What would you be doing now if you could?”
My gaze drifts past her as the music crescendos in the bar. “And I’llll go back to…”
“I’d open a clinic in Bayshore,” I blurt. I’ve never said these words out loud, but it’s a thought that has returned to me more times than I care to mention. “Just a part-time thing, maybe.”
A secret grin tugs at her lips. “Aww. You miss home.”
“It’s an underserved population in Ohio,” I say, but when I catch her narrowed eyes, I add, “And maybe I miss Bayshore a little.”
“Sometimes the penthouse just doesn’t cut it, huh?”
The music stops, and cheers swell around us. She had no idea how right she is. My penthouse is a sad excuse for a home. But with no one to fill it with—no warmth or traditions or fucking time—there’s not many other options.
We slow our movements, but I don’t let go of her, and she doesn’t step away. I release my fingers from hers and wrap my other arm around her, unable to stop myself. A breathy sigh escapes her, and she clutches the backs of my arms.
The penthouse doesn’t cut it. Just like not having London in my arms doesn’t cut it anymore.
“I’m thirsty,” she says suddenly, slipping out of my arms. Cold air replaces her, leaving me feeling empty somehow. She slides onto the stool, sending me an apologetic smile before she tips some beer into her mouth.
I clear my throat, sitting at her side. I’m not wrong about what I’m feeling between us. I can see it in the guilty glances. The way she plays with her necklace. Her flushed neck and the exact number of times she drags her teeth over her bottom lip.
She wants more, but she won’t let herself have it.
Except I plan to show her there’s nothing she needs more.
Chapter 13
LONDON
“Last call!”
I clutch Dom’s arm as the announcement shudders through me. I show him wide eyes. “Are they serious?”
We finished our pitcher a half hour ago, but we’ve just been talking and laughing ever since. I thought it was only midnight. Dear God, please tell me I’m not closing down the bar on a work night. Not when I have the feeble, hangover-prone constitution of someone on the cusp of thirty. I fumble to find my phone.
“I don’t think they’d pull our leg on this one.” He twists behind him to look at the bar. “Last call is no laughing matter.”
“Look!” I show him the screen, which blatantly displays one thirty a.m. “I haven’t been out this late since college.”
He rubs his face. “Do we really have to go?”
The sentiment makes me grin, and I just know that it’s the silly kind. The type of smile that I’ve been delivering to this man all night as we alternated between hilarious stories about our respective childhoods and intense thoughts about adulthood.
“We aren’t in our early twenties anymore, buckaroo,” I remind him, slipping my jacket on. The clamor of conversation reaches new heights as the drunk crowd around us shuffles to the bar for their last orders. “I already know I’m going to have a hangover tomorrow.”
He smirks as he comes to standing, sliding his coat on. “Weak.”
I shove his shoulder before grabbing my purse. “Like you won’t?”
“No. Because I’m going to drink a gallon of water before I go to bed. And so will you.”
I snort, because it almost sounds like he means that we’ll be going to bed together. And lord above, that is exactly what I want. I drank enough beer to effectively ruin my morning tomorrow, which is just the lubrication I need to ruin my professional boundaries as well.
“How will you know if I drink a gallon of water?” I zip up my jacket, sending him a haughty look.
“I’ll make sure you do,” Dom says, placing his hands on my shoulders and tuning me around so I’m facing the door. “Now let’s go.”
We’re dancing a very fine line between temptation and propriety. I know that he wants more. The only thing holding me back is my final shred of professional dignity, which I effectively dissolved with the liter of beer I consumed.
It doesn’t take long for his palms to travel down the lengths of my arms and settle onto the tops of my hips. My core clenches with need, yet another gut punch of lust pummeling through me.
Sleeping with a client actively seeking a wife is not just stupid, it’s confusing. He’s supposed to be initiating relationships with the women in his portfolio, not starting the process out by having an affair with the matchmaker. This is already a situation destined for Jerry Springer.
But if we keep it to a one-and-done slip?
Then maybe that’ll lessen the guilt load—and up our chances of being picked for Springer. After all, I just need to get this out of my system. Dr. Dom has been the looming, unattainable cardiac king for too many weeks. If I dip my toe in the water, I’ll feel refreshed and ready to forget all about him.
We burst through the front door of the bar and into the crisp night air. Dom immediately scoops me against him, his arm hugging my shoulders.
“Are you cold?” he asks.
“Not with you wrapped around me like a big bear,” I tease.
He grunts. “Little London needs a bear.”
“Sounds like an inappropriate children’s rhyme,” I crack.
“Little London needs a bear,” Dom begins. “A big man to carry her everywhere.”
“Keep going.”
“She wooed the men with long blonde hair, and always knew the best heels to wear.”
My grin spreads ear to ear. “Am I wooing you?”
He grunts again, tightening his grip around me. “You have no idea.”
My heels click on the sidewalk as we hang a right at the next block to head toward my office. My heart is pounding as I anticipate the next ten minutes. How I’ll maneuver him into my bed without feeling like a matchmaking failure. Whether or not I’ll be able to look him in the face ever again.
“Is this how you plan to seduce your matches?” I ask him, my cheeks heating up.
He scoffs. “I can’t answer that. It’s been so long since I’ve tried to seduce anyone. I don’t even know how anymore.”
The space between my ears grows raucous. Every cell in my body is urging me to hop onto this train of thought and ride it all the way into the station. “Oh, come on.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and the only sounds between us are our feet scuffing along the sidewalk and our soft breaths. “Why don’t you tell me if I know how?”
“What,” I ask, “like, give you feedback?”
“How about I run through my game plan, and you tell me if you’re seduced or not,” he says, like the diabolical sex god that he is. “But only if you want to.”
Yes. I want it so much. “Yeah, let’s hear it.” I gulp, the words escaping before I can convince myself otherwise. “Seduce me, Dr. Dom.”
He wets his bottom lip, glancing toward either end of the sidewalk. We’re on the same block as my home, just four doors down from my office. Dom steps toward me, steering me toward the brick wall of the nearest building. He backs me up until my jacket is pressed against the gritty wall, his palms pressed to either side of me.
“My first step,” he says, a sexy growl edging his voice, “would be to take you out to a brand-new burger joint and order you the sloppiest fucking thing on the menu.”
I bite my bottom lip, holding in a laugh.
“And then I’d take you to a bar so we could drink and have a good time and listen to a local band butcher our favorite songs.”
The laughter is fading. Because hang on. This means that Dr. Dom wanted to seduce me. From before he even showed up to my office. “Go on.”
“While I was there, I’d somehow convince you to dance with me and pray to God that you couldn’t feel how hard my cock was as we swayed back and forth to a surprisingl
y good Amy Winehouse mix.”
My eyes widen at the dirty word rolling off his lips. This is already so much better than I anticipated, and we haven’t even kissed. I might not survive foreplay with this man if we ever make it to my bed. He was already too hot to begin with, but now he’s revealing a dirty mouth that might just unravel me.
“Once I talk myself down from making out with you in the middle of this bar full of college students and young professionals, I’d walk you home and push you up against a brick wall just before we make it back to your office. I’d tell you all about the dirty fucking thoughts I’ve been having about you for the past three weeks. How many times I’ve imagined kissing you. All the different sexy dreams I’ve had starring your perfect ass bent over my knee.”
He clears his throat, opening up his coat suddenly and pulling me into him. A gasp escapes me as he closes his coat around me, inviting me into his radiator-grade warmth inside. His arms close around me, forming a seal between our bodies.
And that’s when I feel it. The hardness pressed into my lower belly. That thick ridge that I’ve dreamt about the same way he’s dreamt of my ass. My knees go weak, but he doesn’t let me fall.
“I’ve imagined fucking you in every position possible,” he whispers into my ear, his breath hot and provocative against my head. “I would eat your pussy until you turned to Jell-O. And fuck, London, I want you to forget for one night that I’m your client. I know you want this as bad as I do. Listen to yourself.”
God, he’s right. I’m panting like an animal in heat. He grips my chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting my head back.
“And then, just to make sure the seduction is complete,” he whispers, his lips so close to mine it actually makes me angry, “I’d kiss you until your lips go numb.”
I suck in a breath just before he bridges the infinitesimal distance remaining between our mouths. His rough kiss claims my mouth, all his restrained hunger and passion and lust leaking out of him and into me. I push onto my tiptoes, needing more of him, needing everything he has to offer.