He gives a soft growl and closes the space between us, his body huge and predatory. “That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
I resist the urge to giggle, knowing it wasn’t my singing prowess that got him. It was something else, something almost chemical between us. We’re burning up with it, and my flesh feels fiery despite the chill in the air.
“Touch me,” I murmur, but I don’t need to ask. He’s already there.
Dax presses me up against the brick wall of the building, and I glance left to make sure we’re alone. The alley dead-ends on the other side of us, but there could be a parade of clowns closing in on us from the street and I wouldn’t know.
I probably wouldn’t care, either. That’s how desperate I am to feel Dax’s hands on me. I would drop my panties on the fifty-yard line at the Super Bowl.
Speaking of panties—
“Give me your hand,” I whisper, then grab it anyway. I slide it under my skirt and watch his eyes widen as his fingers graze bare flesh.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You’re bare.”
I nod as a shiver ripples through me. It’s not a chill from my lack of underwear. It’s the thrill of knowing I did this with Dax in mind. I left those perfect La Perla skivvies lying on my duvet at home, knowing full well this is how the night would end.
Well, not exactly like this. I guess I didn’t see myself getting frisky in an alley, but I have no objections.
“I wasn’t brave enough to go braless like you asked,” I whisper. “But with a longer skirt, I thought this might be okay.”
“Oh, baby.” His voice is a growl as his knuckles graze the softness between my legs before sliding around to the back. “This is better than okay. It’s fucking fantastic.”
I let my head fall against the brick building as Dax kisses his way down my throat and into the V of my shirt. Both hands are under my skirt, and his grip on my ass reminds me of the song.
“Bootylicious,” Dax murmurs, reading my thoughts as he kneads my bare ass. “Tell me something.”
“Mmm?” It’s the closest thing to actual words I can manage. His fingers grip and squeeze and leave my ass cheeks feeling like they’re on fire.
“Why’d you pick that song?”
I groan as he nips my earlobe, and my fingers find their way under the hem of his shirt. His back is broad and hard, and it takes me a second to remember he asked a question.
“It’s a good song,” I manage, gasping as Dax grips my ass tighter.
“That wasn’t the question,” he chides. “I wanted to know why you chose it.”
“Oh,” I gasp as he dips two fingers into the wetness between my legs. I grip his shoulders, dizzy with desire as he swirls the pads of his fingers through my slickness.
“Tell me, Lisa.”
“Wha—what? Don’t stop.”
He swirls the fingers in a gentle circle around my clit, then dips them back into me. I gasp as he draws them out again and heads the other direction this time. His movements are slick and gentle and oh-so-very slow. I part my legs wider, aching for him to keep going. To touch me there—
“Is that what you want?” His breath is in my ear, his fingertips scant centimeters from my back door. “You want me to play with your ass?”
The words send shockwaves of desire pulsing through me. I nod because I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. To admit that’s what I’ve been dying to try. Where I want him to touch me.
“Dax,” I whisper, hoping he won’t make me say it out loud. He’s right there, so close, so poised to give me what I’m craving.
He draws back and looks me in the eye. Our gazes hold like that for a few breathless moments, neither of us saying a word. It’s Dax who shatters the silence.
“Later,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“You don’t know how badly I want to touch your tight little ass,” he growls. “To slide in my finger or my cock and watch you squirm. But your first time?”
I nod, too stunned by his words to answer, or to even be sure it was a question. But he’s right, I’ve never done that before. Booty play? Not for girls like me. But I’ve wanted to, or at least I do now. I squirm against him, desperate with need.
“Later.” He repeats the vow in a thick growl, and I’m not sure whether I’m more excited by what he’s promising, or the fact that it’s somewhere in the future. That this thing between Dax and me doesn’t have an end date just yet.
His breath skims my ear again, and I give a soft little gasp. “But I can still make you scream.”
Before I can say a word, he drops to his knees on the asphalt. No padding, no hesitation, just goes for it. Pushing my skirt up around my hips with one hand, he clutches my ass with the other. “I’ve been dying to taste you,” he growls.
Then his mouth is on me. I gasp as swirls of shimmering pleasure pulse through my whole body. “Dax,” I gasp, and clutch the back of his head.
His tongue plunges into me, and my knees go weak. He grips my ass tighter, pressing me against his mouth while my spine roots me against the brick wall. I close my eyes, leaning into the sensation as light and color swirl around me. His mouth makes me mindless, teasing, licking, probing.
“Oh God,” I gasp, fisting my fingers in his hair. I loosen my grip when he gives a small grunt of pain, but he doesn’t stop. His tongue keeps teasing, moving everywhere at once.
Lights flicker behind my eyelids, and a spear of pleasure spikes right through my spine. My whole body stiffens, and I know what’s coming.
Me.
“Yes!” My shriek bounces off the brick walls, and I bite my lip to keep from doing it again. But each burst of sensation rocks me back on my heels as Dax strokes and sucks and makes me mindless with his mouth.
I’m still panting as the sensation ebbs and I open my eyes. Dax stands up and yanks out his wallet. I start to spin around, ready to brace my palms against the brick. Ready to feel him slide into me from behind.
But Dax grabs my hip with one hand as he tears open the condom wrapper with his teeth. “No,” he says. “I want to see you this time.”
I drop my hands to his fly and undo his jeans with alarming speed. I’m dying to feel that thick shaft in my palm again.
“Hurry,” I whisper, though he already is. He slides on the condom, then clamps both hands around my hips.
“I want you like this,” he growls as he hoists me up and pins me against the wall with his body. I wrap my legs around him, knowing exactly how the choreography goes, even though I’ve never done this in my life.
He sinks into me in one slick motion, filling me so completely that it’s all I can do to keep from crying out. I bite my lip and taste blood, but I don’t care. As Dax draws back and drives into me again, my whole body arches to take him in.
“Fuck, you feel good.” It’s his voice in my ear, but the words echo through my head in my own voice.
So fucking good.
That’s not even something I’d say, but I’m feeling it now. Experiencing pleasure like I’ve never felt before.
“Dax.” I gasp and grind against him, grateful for the wall at my back, for the delicious angle that lets me grind against him just like that—
“I’m close,” I gasp, astonished that it could happen so soon. He drives into me again, and the sensation grips me, yanking me over the edge and into another dizzying bliss spiral.
“God, Lisa,” he groans, and I feel him let go, too. His fingers clutch my ass, and he pumps me with such force I see glitter behind my eyelids. He gives a soft groan, and stiffens in my arms, between my legs, driving into me until he’s spent.
We both stand there panting for a few heartbeats. Well, he’s standing. I’m still pinned against the wall with my legs around his waist, so I slowly lower myself to the ground and tug my skirt down. I straighten my Mötley Crüe shirt and avert my gaze while Dax gets rid of the condom in a nearby dumpster.
The fact that I’ve just had sex less th
an five feet from a dumpster should alarm me. It should make me feel like trash.
Should, should, should—
How much of my life has been driven by that word?
Dax returns to my side and gives me a smile that’s almost sheepish. It’s an odd shift from the alpha aggressor who drove into me with such force only seconds ago, and the contrast makes me smile back.
“Hey,” I murmur, trying to play it cool.
“Hey back,” he says, and kisses the side of my neck. He kisses my chin, too, then presses his lips to mine for the slowest, deepest, softest kiss imaginable. When he draws back, we’re both a little starry-eyed.
“Sorry we didn’t get to fulfill all your fantasies,” he murmurs. “The bootylicious one?”
My cheeks go warm, and I glance down at my toes. “There’s still time.”
“Definitely. Before this is all over, I promise.”
The words are hopeful, but their finality sends me crashing down a wall of disappointment. It shouldn’t be that way. We pledged to end this after thirty days. To get what we needed from each other and walk away with a handshake at the end.
Am I starting to change my mind?
I nod, not sure whether I’m answering Dax’s question or my own.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Before this is all over.”
Chapter Twelve
Dax
As we climb the steps to the museum, I reach for Lisa’s hand. Our fingers lace together like a matched set. It’s not until she turns and smiles at me that I realize what a relationshippy thing I’ve done.
Then again, this is sort of a date. Today’s outing has nothing to do with The Test, and I’m not sure how to feel about that.
“Here we are,” she says, reaching for the front door. “You have the tickets?”
I nod and pat the pocket of my shirt. It’s the only dress shirt I own, and I’m not sure what it says that I’ve donned it today for Lisa. “Got ’em,” I tell her. “I still can’t believe I let you drag me to some swanky gallery party.”
She rolls her eyes and pulls open the door. “I told you, it’s not a swanky gallery party. It’s an opening for a new art exhibit. One I think you’ll really like.”
There’s a part of me that wants to mutter like a surly jackass about being cleaned up and towed to a highbrow arts and culture affair like a monkey in a suit.
There’s another part of me that loves the idea that Lisa’s chosen something special with me in mind. That she put “Dax” and “art” into the same sentence and didn’t bust up laughing.
“Come on,” she says, pulling me along through the stark white corridor. “The cocktail lines at these things are always huge, so I want to beat the crowd.”
“Far be it from me to get between Lisa Michaels and a fancy cocktail.”
She grins at me as she turns a corner and halts in front of a large easel. “Here,” she says, pointing at the sign. “This is what we’re going to see.”
I stare at the words, absorbing the significance.
Wild and Untamed: An Intimate Photographic Exploration of North American Wolves, by Nathaniel Kahn.
“Wolves,” I repeat, too dumbfounded to say anything smarter than that.
“Like your sculpture,” she says. “I knew you liked them, so when I saw the ad for this opening, I thought…” She trails off, furrowing her brow as she studies my face. “I’m sorry. Is this not okay?”
I’m not sure what she sees in my expression. Awe? Gratitude? Sadness? All of those things, maybe, but I’m determined not to let it show. “It’s awesome,” I tell her, which is true. “I’m blown away that you thought of me.”
Her smile returns, and she grips my hand again. “I’m so glad. The artist is supposed to be amazing. He’s a photographer who works mostly in black and white images, but this is the first time he’s done a show of wildlife photography.”
“What does he normally do?”
“He specializes in erotic imagery. Very artistic.”
“Erotic?”
“Not like that,” she says, probably recognizing intrigue in my voice. “It’s not porn or anything.”
“That’s too bad. I kinda like porn.”
She rolls her eyes, but I can tell she’s not really annoyed. “He usually does abstract, boudoir photography. The sort of thing where you can’t tell whether you’re looking at a thigh or a shoulder or a breast. Very unique.”
“That sounds…confusing.”
She grins and pulls me toward the door. “It’s mysterious.”
We walk into a room filled with well-dressed intellectuals gazing thoughtfully at massive, well-lit photographs. Two men near the door sip from champagne flutes while debating the use of light. Next to them is a woman in a black cocktail dress holding a tiny white dog in a sequined bag. Across from her, a trio of well-dressed hipsters stand with faces tilted upward in that snobby, high-society pose that always sets me on edge.
I’m so busy being a judgmental prick that it takes me a second to notice Lisa has gone strangely pale.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I just—I know that guy over there.”
I follow the direction of her gaze to a dark-haired man in the corner wearing a crisp navy suit and a bored expression. He looks like old money and probably smells like expensive cologne. I’d rather not get close enough to sniff him. I glance back at Lisa.
“Is that Gary?”
“No.” She shakes her head and squeezes my hand. “Stop staring. I don’t want him to come over here.”
“Who is he?”
“A client,” she says, then makes a face. “An ex-client. He made a pass at me when his wife was out of town and I was finishing up one of their summer homes. He got kind of aggressive about it.”
Everything about that statement irritates me. The fact that this prick tried to screw around on his wife. The fact that he’d try it with Lisa. Hell, I hate that he has multiple summer homes. It’s all I can do right now to keep from storming across the room and punching him in his smug-bastard face.
“Come on,” Lisa says. “Let’s get that drink.”
I take a deep breath and pat myself on the back for having the self-control not to hit anyone at a swanky gallery party. I stop patting when I see the guy headed our way.
“Lisa? Lisa Michaels? I thought that was you.”
Douchebag struts up to us and leans in like he’s going to kiss her cheek. Lisa’s grimace is the only cue I need to run interference.
“I’m Dax,” I announce, wedging my body between his lips and Lisa’s face. I don’t bother with a last name. The asshole deserves as few syllables as possible. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
I don’t extend a handshake, and neither does he. Lisa rests a hand on my back but keeps most of her body tucked behind me. If I had any doubts about whether she’s okay with me stepping in, they’re erased by that one tiny gesture.
Douchebag stares me down. More like up, actually, since I’ve got a good eight inches on him. “Miles,” he says. “Miles Pritchard the Third.”
He says it like I’m supposed to be impressed, and I concentrate very hard on channeling the same bored expression he reserved for the artwork. “Miles,” I repeat, adding a slight sneer to my voice. “You having a good time here tonight, Miles?”
“Uh—yes, excellent.” He tugs at his tie and glances around me at Lisa. “And you?”
“Splendid,” Lisa says, nestling up closer. I slide an arm around her, glad she’s not pissed at me. Glad she’s not having to confront this guy alone.
“Is your lovely wife here with you tonight, Miles?” I ask.
He blanches and shoots a nervous glance at Lisa. “Uh—”
“Gwendolyn,” she supplies, like he might have forgotten. “Such a sweetheart,” Lisa adds as she gives me a smile I can’t quite read. “President of the Women’s Charity League. And a wonderful tennis player.”
“She sounds terrific,” I say. “I think it’s important for
a man to respect and appreciate his wife, don’t you, Miles? Your beautiful, charitable, tennis-playing wife?”
“Um, yes—yes, certainly.” Miles appears to very much regret crossing the room. Like if he could hit reverse on his Gucci loafers, he’d back his ass up so fast he’d leave streaks on the carpet.
“Good.” I clap him on the shoulder and smile like we’re best buddies. “I’m glad we had this talk, aren’t you?”
He nods and takes a few steps back, spotting his escape route. “Of course,” he says, still backing away. “It was great to see you again, Lisa. And good to meet you—uh—Dex.”
“Dax,” I tell him, though I’m betting he damn well knows that.
I’m also betting Lisa won’t be getting any more business from the guy. I turn to face her as Miles disappears around a corner. “Sorry about that,” I mutter. “I hope I didn’t screw up a valuable client relationship or anything.”
“Are you kidding?” She beams at me, then stands on tiptoe to plant a furtive kiss at the edge of my mouth. She draws back and gives me a shy smile that makes my chest ache. “I was hoping I’d never have to see that guy again.”
“I think we made sure of that.” I slide my hand over hers and give a small squeeze, glad I didn’t make the wrong call. “Let’s get you that cocktail.”
We step up to the bar, and she orders something that has more ingredients than a bottle of drain cleaner. I get a Jack and Coke, and we move back into the foyer for our first real look at the art on display.
“Wow,” Lisa says, tipping her head to stare up at a framed photo that’s taller than she is. “That’s a big wolf.”
I laugh and take a step back to get the full effect. “Nice teeth,” I say. “You wouldn’t want to meet that guy in a dark alley.”
“Mmm,” she says, giving me a coy little smile as she lowers her voice to a whisper. “Especially not if you were in that alley without panties.”
My dick throbs with the reminder. I can’t believe we’ve reached this point. That we’re sharing inside jokes and shared memories as we stand here holding hands in a museum. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say something mushy and romantic and utterly unlike me, but Lisa tugs my hand and pulls me toward another photo.
The Test (The List series) Page 9