by Karr, Kim
I don’t know how it happens, but I’m on his lap before I can even think about it—straddling him with his face in my hands and his hungry mouth devouring mine. I taste coffee and rain and feel his wet hair on the backs of my hands.
My skirt rides up even farther as his hands slide up my thighs. His skin is like a furnace, burning with such fury that I expect to see steam.
Keen’s hands cup my ass, pulling me closer. “I want to take you out on a date tonight.”
My pussy grinds against his belt buckle, the cold metal penetrating through the lace of my panties. “A date, as in picking me up and taking me to a nice restaurant and then a good night kiss at the door?” I giggle around his hot kisses.
Keen reaches to nudge open the buttons of my blouse and pushes his face against my skin. “I’m pretty sure that’s what a date is.”
My nipples rise in taut peaks through the lace of my bra. “Yes, I accept your offer, but let’s be clear. A date means a date, and nothing else.”
Funny thing to say with his hands all over me, I know, but he requested it, not me. “Yes, a date does mean a date.”
“Just checking. Oh, and I think you should know, I’m not like most girls.”
His tongue licks at my nipple. “Oh yeah, in what way?”
I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from crying out. “I don’t drink fruity drinks, I can do a shooter ten times over, and I know what a combo is.”
Keen leans his head back. “Do I even want to know what all that means?”
“Listen to the song I was playing earlier, then you’ll get it.”
“Later,” he murmurs.
Tilting my head back, I say, “Can I ask you something?”
He nods, licking around my nipple.
“Oh, God,” I moan, distracted.
“You were saying?”
“If the date is later, then what is this?”
His lips tighten on one nipple, the heat of his mouth a sharp contrast to the chill of his wet skin. “This is me needing to be inside you.”
“Oh God,” I moan again, and just as I reach for his belt buckle the sound of a siren and the hint of flashing lights startles me, so much so that I hit my head on the soft top of his roof. “Crap.”
“Your shirt,” Keen bites out.
Scrambling to button my blouse, I ignore the fact that I hit my head.
Fortunately, our heated make-out session steamed up the windows enough that even if the rain weren’t shielding us, the fogged glass will.
I look down into Keen’s face as he looks up into mine.
Even another blast of the siren warning us of the officer’s approach doesn’t change what I see.
Hunger.
Desire.
A need so great, I pray I can fill it.
I lick my lips and taste him.
I feel him, too, between my legs.
He licks his lips and I’m certain he can taste the remnants of my kiss.
“I need to get into my seat,” I whisper.
He nods, yet doesn’t urge me off him. Instead his hands caress my ass. Pushing me forward again. This time his belt buckle has warmed against me, and under me I can feel the bulge of his erection.
A moan escapes from my throat at the memory of how good it feels when he’s inside me.
He pushes a piece of hair from my face, and when he does his back arches and his mouth parts for a kiss, but instead of giving me one, he sits back. “Someone’s coming—you need to move back into your seat.”
In record time I manage to do so. My skirt is twisted, my blouse disheveled, and my hair a mess, and I honestly don’t care.
The knock on Keen’s window forces him to open it. An older officer peers in at us. “Everything okay here?”
“Yes. Sorry, Officer,” he says. “I got a flat and I just finished changing it.”
“In this weather? You’re crazy, son.”
The rain is hitting Keen’s face. “It was me or someone else, so I figured I might as well take care of it myself.”
The officer taps the window. “I’ll help guide you out with my siren. Just follow me.”
“Thank you, sir, I appreciate it.”
Once he closes the window, Keen looks over at me and laughs. “I never had a police escort for trying to get in a girl’s pants.”
“Excitement just seems to follow you.”
He gives me a wink that makes my pulse race. “You got that right.”
And I did.
Finally.
26
GIRL AT HOME
Keen
West Hollywood is just far enough away from Beverly Hills that I don’t have to worry about running into Mommy Dearest.
Yeah, I took some crap this morning from Brooklyn about not returning any of her calls, but fuck, I’m just not ready for that shit parade to begin.
I pull onto Norwich Drive and stop for a moment to admire the architecture of the houses. I grew up in a high-rise in Manhattan. I never had a real yard to play in. Central Park was about as close as I got. New York versus California. I have to admit, that is a hard one.
The thought has me staring for a bit at each of the homes on the street.
After Maggie and I arrived at the Simon Warren flagship store this morning, I was whisked away to be showered, measured, fluffed, and folded. For the rest of the day, Maggie and I barely had two seconds to do anything but stare at each other.
A little after five she informed me she was getting a ride to her mother’s house from one of the salesclerks, and then whispered in my ear with a slight purr that I could pick her up there.
Talk about distracting.
After getting steamrolled by the store manager into going out for a drink after he closed up promptly at 6 p.m., I didn’t have time to check into a hotel, or put my dick in check for an evening out with Maggie.
She had made it pretty clear this date was going to end with just a good-night kiss.
Let’s see who trumps whom in the willpower category.
Pulling into the driveway, I look at Maggie’s mother’s house. I’ll give California this: they know how to build houses.
Katherine May’s private residence is oddly modern and if the words fit together, calming at the same time. It is screened from the street by a dense olive grove. The light-dappled exterior makes it feel like the house is somehow removed from the surrounding neighborhood.
Very private.
Something I really admire.
Talk about two different worlds—Manhattan and West Hollywood couldn’t be more different. And strangely enough, I’m finding myself being drawn into this world.
City boy.
California girl.
Cocky versus sassy.
Nah, it could never work.
Jamming the Porsche into park, I want to slap my own face—man up, dude, and stop overthinking everything. You’re not a chick.
I check my phone for the time.
Dates are like meetings—you should never be too late or too early. Late screams disinterested and early bleeds of overeagerness. Six fifty-four. Perfect. A minute to get to the door and then five minutes early. Just like when I’d slide into the boardroom before my fall from Wall Street.
The text I sent her an hour ago remains unanswered.
Me: Dress down. And don’t wear a bra.
Hmmm…I think I need to remind her that proper phone etiquette dictates acknowledging the receipt of a message.
Yeah, yeah, I know, the pot calling the kettle back—but we’re over that.
Opening the wooden gate, I step into a lit pathway that leads to an oversized glass door. At first glance through it, my heart thunders in my chest and I have to suck in a breath to control myself.
Shit. There goes my dick again.
Maggie’s in the kitchen, wearing a pair of skintight jeans and a bold printed top held up by thin straps on her sexy shoulders. Her hair is down and the front braided to the side.
Fuck me right now, but I want to
break out singing the Beach Boys classic “California Girls,” and yeah, maybe give that braid a tug from behind, with both of us naked.
Refocusing, I look through the glass with the biggest smirk on my face. She’s standing at the kitchen counter and shooting a glass of what I have to assume is whiskey.
She wasn’t kidding when she said she isn’t like most girls.
Here’s the thing—that’s what I find attractive as hell about her. Like really fucking attractive.
An overwhelming need to taste her overcomes me, and I ring the bell at the same time she brings her head forward.
Our eyes connect, and I swear that the lightning I stood outside in earlier decides to finally strike.
Setting her glass down, she walks toward me, and I notice right away the different-colored Converse on her feet. One green and one blue. Her quirky sense of style makes my wide-ass smirk even wider, if that is possible.
She just has to be a rebel.
Reminds me of myself, except I rebelled in very different ways. My anger about my mother leaving me behind was something I never could shake.
Sure, the famous Emma Fairchild was involved in my life as far as sending a check to my old man to finance a nice place for me to live, my private school, and whatever shit I needed that he couldn’t afford, but that was about as far as her mothering went.
So to get her attention, I acted out.
Smoking pot in the bathroom during high school assemblies. Skipping finals just because. Fucking teachers because they were attracted to me. My mother never reacted, but it certainly left my old man pulling his hair right out of his head. Honestly, I’d take back all that shit I caused him if I could.
The door swings open and all I can smell is Maggie. All I can see is Maggie. And all I can feel is Maggie. She has launched herself at me and thrown her arms around my neck, finding my lips in the heartbeat of a second it takes me to figure out this is real, and not some fantasy I’m imagining for jerk-off purposes.
Of course in that fantasy she’d be naked, coated head to toe in whipped cream, and have cherries on her titties. Immature, yeah, I know, but it’s my fantasy.
Panting and out of breath, I pull back. “Maggie…” I exhale slowly.
Those bright blue eyes of hers sparkle when they lift. “Hi.”
Taken completely off guard by this, my hands somehow end up on her ass, and I consider my options here.
“Is your face going to remain the perfect picture of desire?”
Decision made, I push her ass right into my straining erection. “Depends on what you do next.”
She raises an adorable brow. The fact that she is playful and bold at the same time turns me on beyond my control. “Do you have something particular in mind?”
My mouth dips back down and hovers over her lips. “As a matter of fact, I do. Maybe we could say we have already gone on the date and this is the good-night kiss?”
Her tongue sneaks out and licks my lips. “If that were the case, I’d have to close the door right now with you on the other side.”
I snatch her tongue between my teeth and slide my tongue into her mouth. “Or, the date could have gone so well, you’re now inviting me in.”
She reaches around and her fingers thread through my hair. “For a cup of coffee before I send you on your way?”
“No, because you can’t keep your hands off me, my little bedwrecker, and you want to drag me into your bedroom to have your wicked way with me.”
She laughs. “Oh, Keen, you have to do better than a lip-lock for that on a first date.”
I bury my lips behind her ear. “You’re going to make me work for it, huh?”
She steps back onto the pinewood floor and grabs her purse near the door. “You better believe it. I expect you to woo me. Now where are we going?”
“Wait one minute! You get me all riled up and just like that you’re ready to go spend hours at a restaurant?”
She bats those long eyelashes of hers. “Yes, a date is what you called this, and a date is what I want. Just because I let you in my pants before doesn’t mean it will happen again.”
I yank her out the door and right up to my chest. “Good thing I have reservations at the perfect restaurant, then.”
She straightens the collar on my plain white button-down. “We’ll see. I have very…unique tastes.”
Lacing my fingers in hers, I lead her toward my car. “Yes, so I’ve observed.”
For a moment her flirty façade slips and I get a glimpse of the real Maggie. The one that wants someone to understand her.
Little does she know…I already do.
Her façade goes back up within seconds of slipping. “Like I said, we’ll see.”
This man might not be used to having to woo a woman, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how.
“Challenge accepted, Maggie May…I’ll have you begging for me by the time the night is over.”
Guaranteed.
27
STARLIGHT
Maggie
Gracias Madre is beautiful.
A cross between Mexican chic and Palm Springs casual, the restaurant is decorated with festive cushions and bold tiles, a gorgeous courtyard, and inside, high ceilings and a very stylish bar.
Oh, and the guacamole is fantastic. For a Mexican restaurant (and a vegan one at that) to screw up guac would be enough to cause me to walk out, but considering it’s the best I’ve ever had, that’s not anything I have to worry about. And when coupled with their truly addictive house-made chips, my mouth was watering.
I think I ate an entire bowl all by myself.
Keen’s lips quirk up. “So, what do you think?”
The small remaining piece of what was once quesadillas de calabaza on my plate should give it away. The butternut squash and salty caramelized onions tucked inside the tortilla were absolutely scrumptious, but rather than tell him that, I contain my glee. “It was good.”
He raises a brow and those blue eyes gleam with cockiness. “Just good?”
I push my plate away and have to smile. “Maybe better than good. How was yours?”
He’d ordered enchiladas con mole, and the mushrooms and black beans that oozed out of it looked to die for. He looks down at his empty plate. “Pretty damn good.”
I have three things I’m dying to admit. One, he looks sexy as hell and he isn’t even wearing a suit. Two, no one has ever willingly taken me to a vegan restaurant and no one I forced to go has ever liked it. And three, he was so in my pants the minute I met his gaze through my glass door.
The waiter appears and saves me from spouting out what I really need to keep to myself. Taking our plates, he asks, “Can I interest you in dessert?”
Keen sits forward and rests his elbows on the table. “We’ll have a piece of chocolate cake and a piece of java cake, and two coffees.”
The waiter gives a small bow. “Coming right up.”
I raise my brow. “What if I don’t like chocolate?”
He shakes his head at me. “I already know you do. I saw you eating an entire box of chocolates, remember?”
Face plant. Right! “What if I don’t want coffee?”
He smiles, and it’s a gorgeous smile that chips away at the tension prickling my nerve endings. “Then don’t drink it.” He turns serious. “Who was he, Maggie? And don’t say me, because I know that isn’t true.”
Truly confused, I have to ask, “He who?”
Keen picks up the spoon in front of him and moves it between his thumb and fingers. He’s nervous to ask, and yet he does. “The man who fucked with your head so much that you have such a hard time letting your guard down?”
Unease moves through me. I never, ever talk about my father. Ever.
The waiter appears and this time he sets two cups down, then a white china pot, and the cream and sugar. Suddenly, I’m thankful Keen ordered for us. The waiter pours the hot liquid into our cups.
Keen leans back and watches me, his eyes intense with scrutiny
. I shiver and look away.
Another waiter appears at our table and sets two pieces of cake down. The chocolate one in front of me and the java one in front of Keen. Flanked by creamy vanilla-bean coconut ice cream, one cake looks better than the other and vice versa.
“Anything else?” the waiter asks.
“No, that will be all. Just the check. And compliments to the chef. Everything was delicious.”
“He will be thrilled to hear this.” The waiter sets the check down, gives another small bow, and then departs.
I pour my cream and keep my eyes down, and then when I take a sip, I dare to look across the table.
Keen remains unmoved. Leaning back in the chair, one ankle crossed over the other knee, he looks so powerful, it’s hard to believe he’s the same man whose touch can be so gentle, and voice so full of concern.
“Who is he?” His voice is low, taut.
I inhale sharply and set my cup down. “No one. I don’t know what you are talking about. What about you—who is it that caused you to build such a high wall and top it with iron spikes?”
He grins, that wolfish grin that masks what he’s truly feeling so brilliantly. “You have quite a flair for the dramatic, Maggie.”
Spooning a piece of cake in front of me, I say, “Do I?”
Keen studies me for a long moment, watches me chew and swallow, and then uses his fork to lift a piece of cake to my lips. “Try this one—it’s coffee flavored, and I think you’ll like it.”
I open my mouth and let him slide the bite of deliciousness inside. “Ummm...God, this is so good,” I say, covering my mouth. “You have to try it.”
He shakes his head no and sets his fork down. “I ordered them for you.”
“I can’t possibly eat two pieces of cake.”
“Eat what you can.”
“How did you know I’d like this place?”
“Makayla told me you were a vegetarian who tries really hard to be vegan, but sometimes slips,” he laughs. “So it wasn’t hard to find the perfect place to take you out.”