Serving Pleasure (Pleasure Series Book 2)

by Alisha Rai

  The other problem was she didn’t really give a flying fuck about men’s opinions on her makeup. Or anything else she did to her body.

  “…I just like the natural look.”

  Be quiet, her mother snarled. Don’t be nasty. Men don’t like bitchy girls. They were pulling into her driveway right now. If she wanted—and oh God, she wanted—she never had to see him again.

  “Women don’t understand how much it turns men off to not know what a girl looks like under all that gross paint—”

  “That’s kind of a rude thing to say to my face.” Oops.

  But it shut him up. He stopped the car and killed the engine, giving her a baffled, wary look. He was handsome in a perfectly pressed, WASP-y sort of way. His hair was sandy colored and cut conservatively, his suit nicely displaying his lean body. He hadn’t removed his tie, but he had loosened it the tiniest bit.

  Wild man.

  You don’t want a wild man. Remember?

  Yeah, well, she didn’t want one who thought her face was disgusting either.

  “Sorry, what?”

  This isn’t worth it. “It’s rude to call me cheap and gross,” she replied shortly. Being called cheap or even slutty was nothing new to her—hello, she’d been a rather friendly girl since she’d hit puberty—but most people had the grace to do it behind her back. Unwilling to sit in the car a second longer than necessary, she shoved her door open and stepped outside. Earlier, he’d made grand gestures of sweeping her doors wide for her. Sorry, bub. Chivalry wasn’t just working door handles.

  He scrambled out of the car to follow her. “I don’t understand. Are…are you wearing makeup?”

  She moved around the front of his vehicle and made a show of digging in her purse for her keys, the better to hide her expressive face. Otherwise he’d get treated to a whole lot of what the fuck.

  He didn’t even know? Well, that made it almost worse. No, she was not going to be able to be with a man who was stupid enough to think her lips were naturally a shade of Stoplight Red 911.

  Weariness made her hands clumsy. God, she hated this. She’d been on so many first dates over the past year, she could no longer keep count. She was naturally extroverted, but this was getting…exhausting. She’d had some mild hope for this guy, since he worked with her sister Devi’s boyfriend—well, one of her sisters’ boyfriends—but he wasn’t much better than the men she met through one of the six dating apps on her phone.

  When could she give up this methodical search for Mr. Right? She’d never been so tired before, when dating had consisted of a series of casual hook-ups. Yet, she couldn’t say she’d been totally happy then, she admitted with total honesty. At least, not for a while. Plus…

  You’re thirty-two, her mother muttered in her head, right on cue. You do not have the luxury of waiting much longer to settle down.

  Thirty-two still didn’t seem all that old to her. That was a hard thing to remember, though, when her mother called her up regularly to remind her her eggs were crumbling with every tick of the clock.

  She gave the man—Charlie? Maybe?—a tight smile and walked up to her front door. “Thanks for dinner.”

  “I totally didn’t realize you were wearing—”

  “That’s fine.”

  His long legs quickly ate up the ground until he stood next to her. Another reason she’d had somewhat high hopes: he was taller than her. She wasn’t opposed to shorter men, but since she hit six feet in the heels she wasn’t willing to give up, she found a lot of shorter men were opposed to her.

  Rana fitted her key into the lock and inhaled, pasting a smile on. The sooner she got rid of the man, the sooner she could get inside and get a glass of wine.

  And drink it alone upstairs, in her lonely bedroom. With her blinds closed, like they had been for the past week. For reasons.

  “I really am sorry.” His voice was soft, his expression open and earnest. “I was babbling because I was so nervous. You’re so insanely beautiful.”

  That was also supposed to be a compliment. She knew that, intellectually. She was supposed to want to be called beautiful. She’d always liked being called beautiful.

  So why had it started to grate when anyone told her that lately?

  His hand came to rest at her waist, and he leaned in, his face coming close to hers. He wasn’t bad looking, and it had been so long. So she broke her own “no assholes” rule and permitted him to kiss her.

  His lips were dry and firm. It was, in all respects, an unobjectionable first kiss, civilized and proper. He exerted neither too much nor too little pressure.

  She could kiss this man and multitask, Rana thought. Damn, but if she went out with him again, she could be so efficient.

  That wouldn’t be fair to either of them. But a teeny part of her wished she was slightly more impressed. Because then she could end this never-ending search for the perfect partner and stop thinking about unattainable men and get on with the rest of her life.

  A door slammed, and she jerked back, the relief she felt upon their lips separating telling her more than anything else that she couldn’t see this man again. He wasn’t right for her. She needed…

  She followed Charlie’s quick, annoyed sideways glance, and all of the oxygen sucked out of her lungs.

  She needed.

  There, in the gathering dusk of the evening, on the other side of her tidy hedge, stood the object of all her fevered fantasies. She blinked, certain she was imagining things. In her pursuit of avoiding thinking about the man for so many days, maybe she’d gone temporarily insane.

  She could be forgiven for her brain short-circuiting. His hair was slicked back more severely than usual, caught in a tight, small bun at his nape. He wore a black jacket and pants and a crisp white shirt. With no tie, the collar was open to reveal his tanned throat. Gosh, raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens and a beautiful man in a perfectly tailored suit: these were a few of Rana’s favorite things.

  Correction: A beautiful hermit artist neighbor in a tailored suit. Yes. That was her most favorite thing. Ugh, it was almost disgusting how nice he cleaned up. Why, she had half a mind to rip that suit off him.

  The hottie wasn’t looking her way. Of course not. When did he ever? He had no idea she existed, or that she’d seen him at his most intimate moments, or that it had taken herculean strength of will over the past week to keep her blinds shut in an effort to quit him.

  He stepped off his front stoop, his head bent as he adjusted the cuff of his shirt. As he moved, the black fabric stretched over his wide shoulders as if the elegant trappings of civilization could barely contain him.

  “Rana?”

  “Huh?” She focused again on the man in front of her. Charlie. Right. Charlie was who she had to be concerned with. Charlie, and men like him, not her built, hung, temperamental, gorgeous-specimen-of-a-man neighbor.

  “I had such a great time.”

  Or at least that’s what she thought he said. Her hearing didn’t work well when all her blood diverted to her private parts. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “I’d love to see you again…”

  Wah wah wah. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the man in black walk to the silver SUV she’d never seen move from his driveway. The lights flashed once, and he climbed in, his pants tightening over his muscular leg.

  “I’ll call you?”

  Charlie. Yes. No, wait, she didn’t want him to call her. But by the time she snapped back to attention, he was already squeezing her waist gently and murmuring goodbye. She gave him a weak smile and waved as he got back into his car.

  She glanced at the other driveway and froze, because she wasn’t the only one watching Charlie. Her neighbor’s eyes were trained on the other man. From the short distance, he looked like he was…glaring?

  No, she was imagining that. Charlie backed out of the driveway, and her artist’s eyes skated to her, as if he sensed her watching him. His face was grim and tight. Unwelcoming.

  For a second, they stare
d at each other. It couldn’t have been more than a second. That was enough time for her adrenaline to spike, blood rushing through her ears.

  He broke eye contact, started his car, and reversed, driving far more slowly than Charlie had.

  Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

  Fight or flight. Or, more accurately, fuck or flight.

  Terror and excitement zipped up Rana’s spine. I choose…fuck.

  The urge rose inside her, so big and thrilling she knew it would swallow her whole. An urge so crazy, she berated herself ten times as she yanked her keys out of her front door and zipped down her walkway to her car as fast as her three-inch heels could carry her, her breath coming in soft pants. She hadn’t had a drink over dinner with Charlie because she hadn’t wanted to prolong the agony of the evening, so she couldn’t blame her bad decision-making skills on alcohol.

  Catching up with her neighbor wasn’t hard. He had stopped at the sign at the end of their street.

  Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.

  Right. Rana wiped her sweaty palms on her dress and gripped the wheel tighter.

  You’re stalking him.

  Yes. He made a left turn, and she followed.

  After countless episodes of creepy voyeuristic activity.

  Yes. She rolled to a stop at a red light, irrationally annoyed when a tiny smart car came between them.

  This is not part of the plan. You’re supposed to be ignoring him, remember???!!!!

  Uh. Yeah. About that…

  He drove methodically, keeping under the posted speed limit, a courtesy she appreciated as the woman creeping on him. When he finally stopped in a busy, ritzy area of town, she carefully parallel parked a few spots away and waited.

  He emerged from his car, his face even grimmer as he made his way to the building across the street. Rana was familiar with the area. The space they’d chosen for their new restaurant wasn’t far from here.

  Still, she had to squint to make out the swirling, elegant writing on the door. Davide’s Gallery. Ah. A gallery. Made sense she was barely aware of its presence. Rana liked art, but splurging on it, for her, amounted to buying a painting not on sale at Home Goods.

  Rana. What exactly are you doing here?

  She had no idea. But instead of pulling her car out of the parking spot and heading home, chalking this up to a momentary blip of good sense, she shut off the engine and folded her hands over her stomach. Her fingers brushed against the silk of her dress.

  Her mother was incredibly pleased with all of the changes Rana’d made in her life over the past year—cutting out the partying, searching for a suitable man. But unfortunately for her, Rana wasn’t capable of changing her wardrobe, not even out of her newfound desires to settle down or please her mother. The red silk halter dress hit mid-thigh and practically guaranteed an aneurysm from any straight male in the vicinity. The top made the most of her firm breasts, and the skirt perfectly highlighted her long legs. Rana was suddenly glad she had picked one of her favorite outfits for her date tonight.

  She hadn’t known there was a possibility her masturbating hermit hottie painter neighbor would see her in it, but then, she hadn’t thought him leaving his house was a possibility either.

  Her hand reached for the door handle and then drew back. A year ago, she wouldn’t have thought anything about marching in there, breasts blazing, fully confident in her ability to grab, seduce, and walk away from any man.

  But then, she wasn’t the woman she had been. Self-doubt assailed her. Maybe she didn’t want to meet him. Maybe this was a bad idea. He could be terrible, or have a high-pitched voice, or an annoying laugh. He might be a dickhead with an Asian fetish, which was basically what she considered the scum of the earth. He could be—Rana’s lips turned down—terrible in bed.

  Whoa, whoa. Listen to yourself. You have him in bed already. What are you doing?

  She breathed in and out, struggling to calm herself. Five minutes went by, then ten, then fifteen. When she hit the twenty-minute mark and her heart continued to thunder wildly in her ears, she gave up.

  What was she doing? She had no idea. No plan. No hope that this man would fit the suitability test she’d devised.

  There were so many things she didn’t know anymore. Except she wanted to walk into that gallery behind her artist.

  So badly. God. She stared at her fingers. Her hands were shaking with eagerness to meet that man without layers of glass between them.

  What’s stopping you?

  Her mother wasn’t here. Her family wasn’t here. She rolled her lips inward. There was no one she could hurt by indulging this urge.

  The logic was overly simple, but it made her decision. Immediately, her pulse calmed, and the anxiety buzzing in her brain dissipated. No thinking, no planning. Just do. Just this once. What was the worst that could happen?

  She slid out of her small coupe. The mild breeze whipped her dress against her legs, the silk brushing her skin. The sun had started to set, and the lamps up and down the posh street had come to life, the clink of glasses and conversation spilling out from the bars and restaurants.

  She tightened her fingers on her clutch as she came to the gallery entrance, drawing the tattered fabric of her self-confidence around her. The glass doors were heavy, resisting her touch.

  Cool air conditioning kissed her skin, light harp music surrounding her. The gallery was larger than it appeared on the outside, and more crowded, filled with svelte, stylish people dressed in black and white, a low hum of conversation buzzing in the air. She twitched her skirt into place, refusing to feel garish or out of place.

  Be cool. You’re here now, so be cool.

  She put one foot in front of another, her confidence growing as no one stopped her to demand what she was doing in the place. A waiter walked past her, and she snagged a glass of champagne from the man, flashing him a smile of thanks. She took a hearty sip and slipped her clutch under her arm.

  Adopting an air of studied casualness, she glided along the perimeter of the room, attempting to hide her eagerness to see her target. Her eyes skipped over the tightly clumped crowds of people. There wasn’t a single muscular male with silky black hair and artist’s fingers amongst them.

  Disappointment ran through her. Had she hallucinated? Were her stalking skills that subpar? Maybe he hadn’t come in here—

  She turned the corner and bumped into a woman exiting an alcove. “Sorry,” she mumbled, and moved closer to the wall.

  The woman ignored her, speaking to her escort and gesturing behind her. “I like this one. It’s the best so far.”

  “A shame he isn’t painting the way he used to…”

  Out of instinct, Rana glanced in the direction the woman had indicated. And did a double take when the canvas in the small nook struck a chord of recognition.

  She waited until the old man studying the painting wandered off, and then sidled closer. Of course she recognized this piece. She’d watched her neighbor paint it.

  Rana tilted her head and released a shaky sigh. No, she didn’t understand art. But this? This she understood.

  He’d been her focus, when she’d watched him through her window, the paintings a peripheral interest. Plus, the distance had blunted the full impact of his artwork. This was so much better up close.

  The nude couple stood face-to-face, the male’s arm wrapped around the female, his hand splayed over her spine, the tip of his fingers brushing the lush swell of her ass. Her head was turned away from him while his was bent over hers. Her delicate hand rested against his pectoral.

  A tiny, unobtrusive plaque had been placed on the wall. She leaned in close and read it. Captivity. Micah Hale.

  Micah. Hale. She rolled the name around in her mind, her lips forming the words, tasting them. Perfect.

  The other paintings, the ones tastefully arranged all over the gallery, those were his too, all of them consisting of nude women and men. He wasn’t a guest tonight. He was the star.

  Her gaz
e was pulled back to the painting, and she wished she had any idea of art protocol. There was no price tag. Was she supposed to ask? Thanks to the restaurant’s success, she could afford to splurge on occasion. Granted, usually that splurging was reserved for shoes and handbags, but she could make an exception tonight. She simply had to have this. She would fight that lady she’d bumped into for it. She’d fight anyone for it.

  A shoe squeaked on the marble floor behind her, and she stiffened, a shiver of awareness running through her. She knew, even before she turned her head and glanced over her bare shoulder to meet a pair of stunning black eyes, thickly fringed by lashes. A detail she’d been too far away to notice before.

  But she wasn’t far away anymore. There was barely a foot between them. She could touch the man if she wanted to.

  She wanted to.

  Rana pivoted on her heel. As much as she coveted that painting, she coveted him more—he got all her attention right now. He took another step, his gaze unwavering. As she racked her brain for a clever, cool, sophisticated comment, he leaned in. Each word that fell from his scarred lips was like the stroke of a velvet-encased hand over her body, so stimulating it took her a second to process the content of his words.

  “You came inside.”

  Chapter 4

  Rana was considered the most outgoing member of her family. Her youngest sister was naturally shy and preferred cooking to interacting. Her middle sister grew impatient when people didn’t make as much sense as numbers.

  Not Rana. She could converse with a stump, and probably make it smile. So it was a shame that the only word she could manage at that moment was, “What?”

  His lips parted, and his black eyes narrowed in intense concentration on her face, skimming over her lips, cheekbones, eyes. He took his time answering her, but finally spoke. “You came inside.”

  He was…British. He was beautiful and jacked and talented and had the sexiest goddamn accent she’d ever heard in her life. Um, excuse me, sir. Who the hell allowed you?