“He’s in the corner, but Cindy said he came in with someone,” a waitress entering the restroom tells another as she enters a stall.
“What? Who?” the voice in the stall asks.
Ducking my head after washing my hands, I head back outside and find a guy with curly brown hair at our table, sitting with a beautiful cougar far older than him. She is openly staring at Ian’s ass. Ian is standing near the table as if waiting for me. He smiles as I approach and lets me slide inside the booth, and only then does he slide back in next to me.
Loud music pulses through the exotic room. Ian’s familiar scent teases my nostrils and I relax a bit. I take a sip of my drink as we lean back, the loud music making it hard to talk. He’s loyal to his friends, I can tell, because they look at him fondly, and that’s why he’s here, but he’s got his hand on my thigh, caressing up and down, slowly, and I think that, just like me, he would rather be alone. Or working.
He spreads his arm out on the couch behind me and draws me a little closer. He breathes heavily over the top of my head and lowers his mouth to my ear. “You’re the hottest thing here, so stop scowling.”
I laugh. “I don’t know anyone. I’m trying to determine if they’re friend or foe.”
“My friends are your friends. My foes, your foes.” He winks, and I laugh as he starts pointing randomly. “Friend. Foe. Friend. Foe.”
Exhaling as I realize he wants me to know that I’m not in this alone, I scoot closer to him and breathe in his shirt, and I feel the others in the group watch us suspiciously.
Our eyes meet in the dim light—through the music, the crowd, the drinks—and I’m transported to every evening he’s looked at me like this before. In his townhouse. At his office. Even in room 1103. But there’s an edge to his stare that wasn’t there before. An underlying hunger.
In the dark his features are classically perfect. His black button-down shirt is tailored for him. He looks incredible, smells incredible; he’s flawless in this room. I keep stealing looks at him, and I inhale a sharp breath when he kisses the top of my head and calls a waiter to our table, ordering more drinks. Women flock to this table. There are a thousand more beautiful women in this room, but in this moment I feel like I’m the only one.
Hilton stands and makes a speech, thanking everyone for being here on his birthday.
“Ian! This is for you, for coming to the party!” The girls on Hilton’s side of the table wiggle their hands under their tops and take off their bras and toss them in the air, and my mouth almost pops open in surprise, but thank God I contain myself. Sounds and jeers emanate from all over the room.
His lips curl in mild amusement but his hand moves on my thigh as if telling me I’m the one, and his eyes lower to rest on me and no one else. Yet I’m entranced as the girls begin to give a little show, dancing together, shimmying their rears.
I look at them moving, seducing, the look of rapture on the guys’ faces while Ian turns to look at me almost with the same rapture. I feel his inky eyes on my profile and I want to drive him crazy like that. “I can make them stop,” he tells me, quiet but a tad amused.
“No. I’m wishing I could dance like that for you right now.”
The amusement fades from his eyes. He shifts. He’s so big and his presence so overpowering, he’s an expert at helping me become invisible when he shields me with his shoulders. “You don’t need to dance like that for me here. Just blush for me the way you do,” he says, smiling at me.
He slips his hand under my dress, to the top of my thigh. I’m glad it’s dark, the light focused on the dancers, because I’m starting to color bright red. I raise my hands and stroke his hair at the collar of his shirt, caressing it. He kisses my throat and shoves the necklace I’m wearing to the side; then he dips his tongue there, to my pulse point. I nuzzle into the top of his head and melt into the sofa.
His eyes smolder.
He caresses his hand down my back and nudges me closer, until my body is nestled against his. He lowers his head to brush his lips over my mouth, then moves them to feather over my ear. “You’ve been throwing fire at me all night. I know exactly what to do to quench that.”
My arms clench around his neck and my body presses closer. His hands spread on my back and he drops a hot kiss on the back of my hair and flattens me to his chest until we’re almost one.
He lowers his hands to hold my hip bones and dips his head and kisses down my neck, to my collarbone, my shoulders, down to the nook under my necklace, and back up. His lips roam over my jaw, to my ear, and then they head to my mouth.
Aching all over, I let my hands wander up the muscles of his back, and he takes my wrists and pulls my hands up above my head to rest on the backrest of the booth. He interlaces our fingers and starts to kiss my lips, softly. I push upward to feel him, rubbing my breasts against his flat chest. “I need… God, I…” I gasp in his ear.
He expels a breath, trying to control himself. He loves foreplay, but this time it feels like we’re both too wound up. He cups my face and turns my head to kiss me, deeply and passionately, and though I can tell he’s trying to be gentle, I can taste the violence in his kiss.
“Hey, girlfriend. Hey. I bet you can’t do this.” One of the girls shakes her ass to show me.
“Just because I’m sitting on it right now doesn’t mean I can’t use it,” I flash back as I pull away from Ian.
“Oh, well, let’s see!”
My head is spinning. Did I offer that? Hell yes, I did. After his kisses I don’t feel like the black swan; I feel like the white one. Ian reaches up to sip his drink, and finding it empty, calls the waiter and tells him, “Straight up on the rocks.”
“Ian can tell us how well we rate, huh?” the girls insist.
I look at him and he’s leaning back, looking at me as he continues with his delicious caresses on my knee.
“All right.” I stand and climb up onto the table, kick off my heels, and slowly, without looking at anyone but Ian, I start to dance to “How Deep is Your Love” by Calvin Harris.
I move a little, turn my ass one way, and then the other. I laugh and though I’m not dancing ballet, I know how to move, and I notice nobody is looking at me, they’re looking at Ian. And Ian sits there, immobile, his eyes so fiery and bright he almost looks mad. His eyes crawl up and down my body hungrily, and the little bit of inhibition that remains is nearly gone as I feel the high of Ian wanting me. I’m putty and I don’t know why, or maybe I do.
Because I love him.
Because I’ve loved him for a while, no matter how much I tried ignoring it.
He looks into my honeyed eyes, outlined by sooty lashes that I spiked up tonight with the mascara I used on our way here as I tried to dress up. I thought I was underdressed. I thought, when I saw the women in the club, that there was more than enough fabric covering my body, but now Ian looks like there’s not enough.
“Okay,” I say, dropping down. “Don’t flunk me,” I warn, feeling a little high and reckless. I’ve never done that before.
“On a scale of one to ten, Ian?” one of the girls asks.
“Whoa, Ian,” the guy with curly hair, who I realize must be Loki, says.
Ian clenches his jaw and stares down at his fingers as he curls them into his hands, then uncurls them. “One to ten?” He raises his eyebrows after a few heart-stopping seconds and says, “She broke the scale.” Hilton cackles and Ian leans over and spreads his arm around me, drawing me to his side in a familiar, both protective and possessive, way.
“What? Who?” the voice in the stall asks.
Ducking my head after washing my hands, I head back outside and find a guy with curly brown hair at our table, sitting with a beautiful cougar far older than him. She is openly staring at Ian’s ass. Ian is standing near the table as if waiting for me. He smiles as I approach and lets me slide inside the booth, and only then does he slide back in next to me.
Loud music pulses through the exotic room. Ian’s familiar scent teases my nostrils and I relax a bit. I take a sip of my drink as we lean back, the loud music making it hard to talk. He’s loyal to his friends, I can tell, because they look at him fondly, and that’s why he’s here, but he’s got his hand on my thigh, caressing up and down, slowly, and I think that, just like me, he would rather be alone. Or working.
He spreads his arm out on the couch behind me and draws me a little closer. He breathes heavily over the top of my head and lowers his mouth to my ear. “You’re the hottest thing here, so stop scowling.”
I laugh. “I don’t know anyone. I’m trying to determine if they’re friend or foe.”
“My friends are your friends. My foes, your foes.” He winks, and I laugh as he starts pointing randomly. “Friend. Foe. Friend. Foe.”
Exhaling as I realize he wants me to know that I’m not in this alone, I scoot closer to him and breathe in his shirt, and I feel the others in the group watch us suspiciously.
Our eyes meet in the dim light—through the music, the crowd, the drinks—and I’m transported to every evening he’s looked at me like this before. In his townhouse. At his office. Even in room 1103. But there’s an edge to his stare that wasn’t there before. An underlying hunger.
In the dark his features are classically perfect. His black button-down shirt is tailored for him. He looks incredible, smells incredible; he’s flawless in this room. I keep stealing looks at him, and I inhale a sharp breath when he kisses the top of my head and calls a waiter to our table, ordering more drinks. Women flock to this table. There are a thousand more beautiful women in this room, but in this moment I feel like I’m the only one.
Hilton stands and makes a speech, thanking everyone for being here on his birthday.
“Ian! This is for you, for coming to the party!” The girls on Hilton’s side of the table wiggle their hands under their tops and take off their bras and toss them in the air, and my mouth almost pops open in surprise, but thank God I contain myself. Sounds and jeers emanate from all over the room.
His lips curl in mild amusement but his hand moves on my thigh as if telling me I’m the one, and his eyes lower to rest on me and no one else. Yet I’m entranced as the girls begin to give a little show, dancing together, shimmying their rears.
I look at them moving, seducing, the look of rapture on the guys’ faces while Ian turns to look at me almost with the same rapture. I feel his inky eyes on my profile and I want to drive him crazy like that. “I can make them stop,” he tells me, quiet but a tad amused.
“No. I’m wishing I could dance like that for you right now.”
The amusement fades from his eyes. He shifts. He’s so big and his presence so overpowering, he’s an expert at helping me become invisible when he shields me with his shoulders. “You don’t need to dance like that for me here. Just blush for me the way you do,” he says, smiling at me.
He slips his hand under my dress, to the top of my thigh. I’m glad it’s dark, the light focused on the dancers, because I’m starting to color bright red. I raise my hands and stroke his hair at the collar of his shirt, caressing it. He kisses my throat and shoves the necklace I’m wearing to the side; then he dips his tongue there, to my pulse point. I nuzzle into the top of his head and melt into the sofa.
His eyes smolder.
He caresses his hand down my back and nudges me closer, until my body is nestled against his. He lowers his head to brush his lips over my mouth, then moves them to feather over my ear. “You’ve been throwing fire at me all night. I know exactly what to do to quench that.”
My arms clench around his neck and my body presses closer. His hands spread on my back and he drops a hot kiss on the back of my hair and flattens me to his chest until we’re almost one.
He lowers his hands to hold my hip bones and dips his head and kisses down my neck, to my collarbone, my shoulders, down to the nook under my necklace, and back up. His lips roam over my jaw, to my ear, and then they head to my mouth.
Aching all over, I let my hands wander up the muscles of his back, and he takes my wrists and pulls my hands up above my head to rest on the backrest of the booth. He interlaces our fingers and starts to kiss my lips, softly. I push upward to feel him, rubbing my breasts against his flat chest. “I need… God, I…” I gasp in his ear.
He expels a breath, trying to control himself. He loves foreplay, but this time it feels like we’re both too wound up. He cups my face and turns my head to kiss me, deeply and passionately, and though I can tell he’s trying to be gentle, I can taste the violence in his kiss.
“Hey, girlfriend. Hey. I bet you can’t do this.” One of the girls shakes her ass to show me.
“Just because I’m sitting on it right now doesn’t mean I can’t use it,” I flash back as I pull away from Ian.
“Oh, well, let’s see!”
My head is spinning. Did I offer that? Hell yes, I did. After his kisses I don’t feel like the black swan; I feel like the white one. Ian reaches up to sip his drink, and finding it empty, calls the waiter and tells him, “Straight up on the rocks.”
“Ian can tell us how well we rate, huh?” the girls insist.
I look at him and he’s leaning back, looking at me as he continues with his delicious caresses on my knee.
“All right.” I stand and climb up onto the table, kick off my heels, and slowly, without looking at anyone but Ian, I start to dance to “How Deep is Your Love” by Calvin Harris.
I move a little, turn my ass one way, and then the other. I laugh and though I’m not dancing ballet, I know how to move, and I notice nobody is looking at me, they’re looking at Ian. And Ian sits there, immobile, his eyes so fiery and bright he almost looks mad. His eyes crawl up and down my body hungrily, and the little bit of inhibition that remains is nearly gone as I feel the high of Ian wanting me. I’m putty and I don’t know why, or maybe I do.
Because I love him.
Because I’ve loved him for a while, no matter how much I tried ignoring it.
He looks into my honeyed eyes, outlined by sooty lashes that I spiked up tonight with the mascara I used on our way here as I tried to dress up. I thought I was underdressed. I thought, when I saw the women in the club, that there was more than enough fabric covering my body, but now Ian looks like there’s not enough.
“Okay,” I say, dropping down. “Don’t flunk me,” I warn, feeling a little high and reckless. I’ve never done that before.
“On a scale of one to ten, Ian?” one of the girls asks.
“Whoa, Ian,” the guy with curly hair, who I realize must be Loki, says.
Ian clenches his jaw and stares down at his fingers as he curls them into his hands, then uncurls them. “One to ten?” He raises his eyebrows after a few heart-stopping seconds and says, “She broke the scale.” Hilton cackles and Ian leans over and spreads his arm around me, drawing me to his side in a familiar, both protective and possessive, way.
