When she returns to the wings again, this time under her own steam, she peels off her tank top.
She needs to stop getting naked in front of people, an irrational part of my brain growls.
A man hands her a towel, and another shirt. She grabs his wrist. “Frankie, you coming back to my suite for the night?”
Jesus. I can’t take this.
“Whatever you want, Tabitha.” He gives her a smooth smile and my shoulders bunch up.
I’d like to smash his face into a million bits, but that reaction has nothing on how my body goes into overdrive when Grant approaches and slides his hand against the small of her back.
“Great show.”
“Thanks.” She doesn’t mention her planned group activities to him. Interesting. She’s invited the rest of the greater Los Angeles area.
“There are some investors—”
“I’ve had two drinks of—what were they, Izzie?”
“Vodquila. Best of both worlds,” the blonde adds spritely, either ignorant to the tension between the singer and her manager, or deliberately feeding the drama monster.
“Yeah.” Tabitha beams at Grant. “So I’m like a loose cannon. You sure you want me to do this?”
He glowers at her. “I told you to stay sober tonight.”
“Oops. I forgot.”
A crash on the far side of the stage makes them all turn away from me, and I take my leave.
If she’s going back to the hotel, so am I.
I pull out my phone as I make my way to my rental car and text a message to the escort service I use out here. Services no longer required tonight.
—eleven—
Tabitha
Frankie gets my pants undone in the limo, but I don’t want his hands on me tonight. We make out for a bit, then I push him aside and turn my attention to Izzie. I want to watch him fuck her.
“You want his cock, Izzie baby?”
She glances back at us over her shoulder and nods. I shove the man-child her way. He’s probably twenty-three, maybe twenty-four—he’s graduated college, which I haven’t—but he still feels so damn young compared to what I’ve survived in my twenty-five years.
“Frankie, you should give the lady what she wants.” I slide my hands inside my jeans and stroke my bare skin as I watch him inch down her black pants and bend her over on the wide leather seat.
The visual makes me wet, and I touch myself deeper. God, I’m sticky all over, and not in a good way. I still need to shower. He can wash my hair. Poor kid will probably love that just as much as screwing my PR girl.
He’s built. Not as built as Wilson.
I close my eyes and see those grey eyes, judging me.
Ahhhh. Dude has to get out of my head. I’ve felt him crawling up my back and against my neck all night. If he’s the reason I’m not fucking Frankie right now…
Maybe he really is a federal agent. Uptight. Repressed.
My eyelids flutter open, just enough to see the erotic tableau on the other side of the limo. Would Wilson rail me like that? Clothes barely undone?
I should have been more subtle this afternoon. Maybe I could have actually had sex with them instead of scaring them off.
The best part of theatre is finding out how close to the edge of reality you can slide and still be within the realm of fiction. Of telling a story and having a point, instead of just being something to gawk at.
I never fail at that. That I lost sight of that today is terrifying. I pull my hands out of my pants and reach for the vodka in the built-in bar. The limo smells like sex, and now, as I crack the seal on a top-shelf bottle I won’t take a second drink from, it smells of booze, too.
My comfort zone.
And it ends too soon as we pull up in front of the Bel-Air.
Frankie and Izzie take a second to pull themselves together. My driver knows better than to open the door before I roll the window down—our signal—so when we exit the limo, Frankie in front, me in the middle, head down, and Izzie carrying my bag behind me, if there are any paparazzi, they’re not going to get a very interesting shot.
Upstairs the good times continue mostly without me, and after their first round comes to a screaming conclusion—I applaud—Izzie scurries into the bathroom to get the shower going.
Yes. I need to wash off the night. And the day.
I need to wash off Wilson and his piercing gaze. His quiet voice, and unexpected bark.
That surprised him, I could tell.
Stop thinking about him, I demand of myself. I’ve never been good with demands.
I pour myself another drink and stare at the phone. What was the ridiculous name he gave me? Gough. I snort and pick up the handset, immediately connecting with the concierge downstairs.
“Is Wilson Gough still here at the hotel?”
“Yes he is, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“My apologies, Ms. Leyton. Would you like to be connected?”
“Sure.”
The phone rings a few times, then the concierge is back. “There’s no answer. Would you like to leave a message?”
Not one that I want to send through a hotel employee. Or even leave on voice mail. I give the concierge a throwaway email address that I use from time to time and ask him to tell Wilson to contact me personally.
Then I down my fourth drink of the night and head to the kitchen. Smoothies by day, white toast and tequila by night. Sustenance of pop stars living on the edge.
I’m such a cliché.
I don’t care. Toast is fucking awesome, and frankly, so are smoothies. Nothing without a purpose, that’s my rule for whatever goes in my body. Cocks. Fingers. Food. Alcohol.
Okay, so some of them have fucked up purposes.
Whatever.
My phone vibrates on the counter.
I glance toward the bathroom. They’re both in the shower now. Maybe they’ll forget all about me.
Two clicks on my phone and I’m reading an email from one Wilson Carter. Interesting.
From: Wilson Carter
To: TL
I was just about to let myself into your suite. This is convenient timing, are you stalking me?
I laugh, and it’s such a strange sound coming from inside my body that I jump.
From: TL
To: Wilson Carter
No, that’s your job. Give me ten minutes to wash off the stage sweat, then let yourself in. Or try knocking for something new and different. Bring your “partner”. He’s cute.
I put the phone down and shake my head, laughing again. Did I just flirt with someone who’d pretended to be a federal agent barely ten hours ago, desperate to get information from me?
I do a lot of stupid things, but I usually see them coming. Pick up the bottle and hand over the condom with the full knowledge that I’m not being totally smart.
This is different. I didn’t see this coming.
Whatever happens tonight, I’m going in blind. This guy knows way more than I do.
I should be terrified.
Instead I skip to the bathroom and slid between Izzie and Frankie. Time to get the party started.
—twelve—
Wilson
I wasn’t kidding that I was about to let myself into her suite. I’m standing in the hallway, right across from her door.
So I give her ten minutes, then I knock.
She’s just wearing a robe, holding it loosely together with one hand when she opens the door. Freshly showered, and behind her are two more people—Frankie and Izzie from backstage. Also both in robes.
I flash my badge at them and she rolls her eyes. Okay, so she knows it’s a ruse now. I couldn’t bring myself to use a fake email address. That doesn’t stop me from telling them we need the room, because that’s an effective way to be alone with her.
Izzie grabs a bag and they scurry across the hall to the other suite.
I wait until we’re alone to speak. I take the time to notice the difference in the sui
te from the daytime—the only lighting is a few lamps, and it’s almost…cozy. “You summoned me?”
She scowls. “I did, but I thought I was clear in my message that you should bring your partner.”
“He’s flown back to D.C.”
“That’s a shame.” She flicks her gaze to the door, like she wants her friends to come back. Not going to happen.
“How did you know I’d stick around?”
She rolls her eyes. “You were practically gagging for an invitation into my pants. You got all turned on as an interview subject stripped down like a nut job. Someone you thought was a victim of some horrible trauma.”
“You said you weren’t a victim.” That’s weak, even to my ears. “I don’t want to take advantage of you.” And that’s even weaker.
“Really?” She smirks.
“You’re a beautiful woman…” Fuck, I suck at this. This is why I bang hookers.
She shakes her head and laughs. “That’s the thing about being dirty. Sometimes it’s the things we don’t want to want that turn our cranks the hardest.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“That’s me.” She drops her hand, letting her robe fall open. Beneath it she’s naked, her bare, lush skin glowing in the lamplight. My gaze falls to the black tattoo I missed earlier, when she had her back to me, and my cock strains at my zipper as I take in what she’s offering me.
Black ink swirls across her lower belly, disappearing over her hips like a reverse chastity belt—an invitation to sin.
I huff out a frustrated breath. Fucked up? Me too.
She moves closer, sliding her arms over my shoulders, her breath puffing hot air against my mouth. “What are you afraid of? What do you want to do to me?”
Pulling her hard against me, I grind her against my jeans, my hands gripping her hips so hard I must be leaving fingerprint shaped bruises. “Everything.”
“Then let me call them back.” She yanks herself out of my grasp and paces backward, her breasts swaying hypnotically. “Because I don’t do one-on-one anything.”
I prowl after her. “Why?”
She shakes her head. “You don’t get to ask me that. You can stay and fuck me with some friends, or you can go. We don’t talk.”
“We’re talking right now.”
She bumps into the console desk behind her and I keep going until I’m up against her. I lift her roughly, setting her ass on the desk.
Her legs wrap around me. “Go away.”
“Your show tonight…”
She goes rigid in my arms. “Were you there?”
“Of course I was there.”
She shoves against my chest and I step back enough to let her set her feet down. She rubs the back of her neck. “Jesus. I thought I…” She shakes her head. “Who are you? Really?”
I close my eyes. This is a bad idea. Knowing that doesn’t stop me. “My name is Wilson Carter. I’m a partner in a crisis management firm in Washington, D.C.”
“What is your real interest in me?”
At the moment, it’s fucking her silly, but since we’ve gotten real for a second, that’s on the back burner. “That we didn’t lie about. We’re investigating Gerome Lively.”
She stiffens. “I really don’t have anything to do with him.”
“Does your manager?”
Her face pales. “How good are you at your job?”
“The best.”
“Then I’m sure you’ll figure that out soon enough on your own.” She sticks me with a cold look and leans back against the console. The ivory silk of her robe is a luxurious frame for the perfection of her body. Heavy breasts. Dark pink nipples. Enough curve to her belly to be interesting, but she’s all muscle. And then there are those wings across the lowest curve, framing her bare pussy. I drop to my knees and press a kiss there, on the ink, and she tangles her fingers in my hair, urging me lower.
I’ll get there soon enough. I’ll make her scream, because I want to consume her. I want to devour her taste until her scent is permanently imprinted on my skin. But right now I’m more interested in the tattoo. I trace my fingers over the edge of it, using two hands. When she squirms, I shift one hand to squeeze her hip. Hold her in place.
Lighter now, I brush over each wing with my fingers.
It’s when my touch slides from one wing to another, over the scrolling heart in the middle, then I feel the faint ridge of scar tissue.
She freezes.
Has nobody else ever touched her like this? Obviously she’s free with her body.
Not so much with the tattoo?
It’s an old scar, and the tattoo ink fully disguises it to the eye.
A horizontal cut, a few inches wide and right at her pubic bone.
I press my forehead against her belly.
You’ve got wings I’ll never have
You’ll fly
So carry my dreams, love
And you’ll be fine
Tabitha Leyton doesn’t have children.
But she gave birth to one, and not recently.
I rise to my feet. Barefoot, she’s tiny, and in order to kiss her I need to bend over.
Picking her up is a hell of a lot easier. Her waist is nothing in my hands, and she gasps as I hoist her up high, easily holding her against me as I take her mouth.
Frustrated anger pours through me and into her as the kiss goes from zero to sixty in the blink of an eye. Her lips part and her tongue darts out. It’s an invitation I’ll always accept, I know that in my gut.
This woman—messed up, hostile, tragic—owns my soul somehow. She can take anything she wants from me. And even if she doesn’t ask for anything, I still give it.
I’ve never been a caregiver. I’m not sure I know how, not in a healthy way. But as our mouths move together, as I stroke my tongue against her and swallow her protests and her fears, as I hold her tight and let her haul me closer…I can give her this.
I can say, I see you, baby girl. I don’t know who you are or what the hell happened to you, but I see your darkest secret and I still want you.
Not with actual words, of course.
We’re going to pretend now.
We’re going to hide from the truth.
But we’re going to do it together.
—thirteen—
Wilson
I settle her more firmly on the table and spread her legs wide. I’m still dressed in my jeans and dress shirt. I rolled up my sleeves when I was waiting for her earlier, but she’s gloriously naked and I want—no, need—to be buried to the hilt inside her, so my clothes are a problem. I roughly undo the buttons on my shirt as she watches me.
I’d have gotten it all the way off, too, if she hadn’t reached between her legs and touched herself.
I can’t explain the hold this woman has on me. Fuck it, I don’t want to explain it. If I think too long about that, too hard, I’ll stop myself before we get to the finish line.
I grab her wrist with a growl and pull her hands to my chest, then my lips, where I suck the taste of her arousal off her skin. Mine.
“Bed,” she whispers, scratching her short nails into my hair as she wraps her arms around me. The light touch sends a bolt of desire straight to my balls.
“No,” I growl. “I want you right here, right now.”
“Someone might come in.”
“Then they’ll have to watch.” This is important. I glare at her. “I’m not sharing you. Just you and me. No fucking orgies to hide behind. But I don’t care who sees me take you, you got that? Nothing you can say or do will shock me. I’m not…Fuck, Tabitha. I’m not a possessive man. But when it comes to you, I think I am, and you’re just going to have to deal with that.”
“You don’t want to see me lick someone’s sweet pussy while you pound into me?”
That’s hot, I can’t deny it. And I’m an asshole for not taking what she’s offering—for demanding something most definitely not on offer.
“You like the taste of pussy?” I slide
my middle finger along her slit, easily finding her soaking wet entrance. I circle her slick skin as she clenches helplessly, coating my finger with her juices before lifting my hand to her mouth. “Then suck.”
She does, greedily, but it’s not the taste of herself that she’s hungry for. She sucks my entire finger deep into her hot, wet mouth, her tongue pulling my digit nearly into her throat.
The vacuum seal makes my dick surge against the fly of my jeans.
“Get my cock out,” I tell her roughly. Her eyes go wide and I press my finger hard against her tongue. I’m not fucking joking. She’s got me halfway to coming, and it’s not going to be in my pants.
It’s going to be down her million-dollar throat.
And then I’m going to get hard again—if I even go soft at all—and my next load will be in her off-limits pussy.
Nothing about Tabitha is off-limits to me.
Not anymore.
Her hands are like magic, getting my fly down and my cock out in a flash. She makes this hungry little sound that kills me as she gives me a preliminary squeeze and a drop of pre-come appears for her.
“Lick it up,” I order, and she scrambles to her knees, tongue out, eyes closed. I cover her hand with my own, rubbing the fat head of my dick against her tongue, then I butt it right up against her lips. “Open. Ahhh. Yes. Good. Girl. Fuck. Yeah. Swallow.”
I pet her cheek as she pulls me deep, doing exactly what she promised on my finger. God, she’s good. My eyes drift shut and I snap them open again. I’m not going to miss a second of this. She’s incredible. Her dark hair flows over her bare shoulders, creamy pale skin swaying back and forth as she puts her entire body into sucking me dry. Her tits sway between us, and I picture stretching her out on a bed. They’re big enough they’d still be fuckable when she’s on her back.
Dirty Love (Forbidden Bodyguards #3) Page 5