Текст книги "Blind Date "

Автор книги: Emma Hart

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BLIND DATE A Novella

Copyright © Emma Hart 2015. All rights reserved.

For everyone who asked for more of Bee and Carter.

It’s not much, but I hope it’s enough. Thank you for loving them more than I thought you would.

This one is for you.

Chapter One

Best friend. Go ahead—look it up in the dictionary. Right next to it in the definition section will be one simple word: Bitch.

It’s never a good idea to let them set you up on a date—especially when you’ve been known to break out in hives at the mention of the d-word.

See those red bumps at the back of my neck? Yeah, those little bastards have been hanging around ever since she called three days ago and said she’d found me a date.

I threatened to vomit. I still want to vomit. I don’t date. I’m not a dater. And not for some bullshit reason like I got my heart broken or I’m a commitment-phobe or I was cheated on. No—I’m single because I want to be. I don’t date because I don’t want to—mostly because I have no desire to wipe pee off my toilet seat.

It is literally that simple.

Except… It isn’t. Not quite.

I’m a serial one-nighter. A hitter and a quitter. A whammer, bammer, thank you mammer.

And yes, I am the proud owner of a vagina with the female reproductive organs, and I also happen to have a banging pair of tits.

What? If I can’t appreciate them, no one else will.

In the last three years, I’ve slept with exactly thirty-six men. I’ve seen one of them more than once, but it was such a booty call and so draining that I ended that crap quicker than Mr. Tap-Tap-Squirt, my sexually enthusiastic neighbor. I’ve mistaken his escapades for a knock on my front door more than once.

One time, I even knocked back through the wall in case he was communicating with Morse code. That was awkward. Especially when he showed up in nothing but his robe.

His pink robe. I’d hoped at the time it was his date’s, but I’ve since seem him proudly taking the trash out since then.

“Come on, Bee,” pleads Charlotte “Charley” Hill, my best friend, bracing her hands on her hips. She’s towering above me, standing tall in a pretty hot pair of heels. She looks like she’s ready to go give the pole the time of its life down at the local strip club.

“Nope.” I ignore the dress and heels she’s set on the sofa opposite me. I look like I haven’t showered in a week—although I did so this morning before work—and I’m slouched on the sofa in a manner worthy of a teenaged body waiting for his porn movie to buffer.

All hail sweatpants.

“Come on. He’s been dragged to this, too. He hates dating. You’re kindred spirits.”

I snort. “So send him round with beer and wine and we’ll skip the date part of the night.”

“You’re so boring, do you know that?”

I shove a tortilla chip into some salsa and pause, skirting my gaze toward her. “I’m not boring, Charley. I’m simply self-serving. Look at this—if I dated, would I be able to lie here on my sofa, feet on the coffee table, nomming down chips like I don’t care about my muffin top, while wearing yesterday’s bra?”

“When you put it like that, you really need to date.”

Shrugging, I shove the chip into my mouth and chew, staring intently at her.

With a sigh, she presses her hands together in front of her. Then, putting her hands back on her hips, she looks at the ceiling. Her lips move slowly as she silently counts to three, and then, “Right, that’s it, Bee Donnelly! I’m officially staging an intervention!”

“I don’t need a—hey, bring that back!” I lunge for the bowl of chips she swipes from the table and fall to my knees. “Charley! Don’t be a bitch!”

She slams the bowl down on the kitchen counter and a few chips fly out. She turns, her hands back on her hips, her dark eyes blazing. “No. I don’t give a shit if this is the only damn date you go on this year. I’ve gone to the trouble of organizing this, and you’re gonna go on it!”

“You just said he was forced into it too,” I point out, kneeling back. “You’re not fucking cupid.”

Charley storms across to the other sofa, grabs the dress and heels, and shoves them at me. “I might not be cupid, but I know how to use these shoes as weapons. Take them and get changed.” She pushes them into my chest and drags me to my feet.

Jesus, for a short chick, she’s strong.

“I hate you.”

“I know, Bee. But you might get laid at the end of the night. We’ll talk then.”

I grasp the bundle of items tightly and storm into my room. Goddamn it. Having a serial dater for a best friend is not fucking working out for me. I might have to cut her ass loose. So what if we’ve been best friends since we were four?

We’re not four and we can’t both have the same Barbie house for Christmas. She wants to date. Fine. She can date. Let her date her pretty way through Mr. Asshole, Sir Cheat-a-Lot, and Lord Pencil-Dick.

I’ll be quite happy to skip the date and hop straight to the bedroom with Mr. Cock Piercing, Sir Pussy-Eater, and Lord Multiple-Orgasm.

Just not at the same time.

Although. Sir Pussy-Easter and Lord Multiple-Orgasm could be on to something there.

“Bee!” Charley bangs on my bedroom door. “I hope you’re getting changed.”

I open the door and throw yesterday’s bra in her face.

Bitch.

***

“I really fucking hate you.”

“Damn, they aren’t even here yet and you hate me that much?”

I roll my eyes and take a sip of my wine. My narrowed eyes scan the restaurant, and I shift in my seat. I’m not comfortable in this dress in the slightest. It feels way too much like it’s a day job dress. If you ignore the sleeves that are slightly off-shoulder and the fact my mom would fire me if I turned up with a dress this short. At least my boobs are covered. I guess.

“How much longer do we have to wait? My stomach is contemplating digesting itself.” I lean over slightly and close the gap between our small, square tables.

“I just remembered why you don’t date. You’re so rude.”

I glare at her, but she’s grinning. Bitch. “Look, I’m hungry. You took away my chips.”

“Are you twenty-six or a toddler?”

“Depends on the day and what I’m doing. When I’m eating, I’m a toddler. Always.”

“Well can we revert back to being twenty-six now? Because they’re here.”

“Who are they? The mafia? The Avengers?”

“Bee,” she growls, discreetly slapping the side of my thigh with the back of her fingers.

I just about refrain from rolling my eyes again and release my vice-like grip on my wine glass. Play nice, Bee. That’s all you have to do. For ninety minutes at least.

“Bee,” Charley says, “This is Carter Hughes.”

Great. Here we go.

I place my hands on the table and push up to standing. And, shit.

Holy.

Fucking.

Shit.

Dear God, did you send Carter Hughes as a beautiful treat for me? Is it because I finalized the mother of all contracts at work this week?

Because thank you. Thank. Fucking. You.

His dark hair is cut short, and it’s slightly longer along the middle and spiked in an odd kind of Mohawk way, but the rest of his hair is just long enough that it doesn’t look stupid. In fact, it’s kind of swept to the side, too. But who the hell am I kidding—I’m not focusing on that hair. I’m focusing on everything that is his face.

His eyes—holy fucking ovary boom. They’re the most startling bright green I’ve ever seen. They’re almost emerald in their intensity, and the intensity is spine-shivering in the best kind of way. His eyes are crawling over me slowly, every tiny spark flaring in those captivating irises firing a bolt of attraction and desire my way.

It’s also how his mouth curves to the side that has his cheek quirking, revealing a tiny dimple on that cheek, the only so-called blemish on his perfectly smooth skin.

And his mouth. We won’t go there with his God-given perfectly pink lips and his expert turn upward.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Donnelly,” he says, his voice husky as he takes my hand. He lifts it to his mouth and brushes his lips warmly across my knuckles.

“I’d love to say the pleasure is all mine,” I muse, admiring the way that suit hugs his shoulders, “but I’m sure I might be lying.”

Carter Hughes stops, his mouth hovering against my fingers, and smiles. “That you might.”

“And the name is Bee,” I add as an afterthought.

Yes, sir. My name sure is Bee. You can try it on later.

“Bee,” he murmurs. “As in the animal?”

“As in the animal,” I agree. Damn hippie father. I half-smile, ignoring the shivers that cascade across my skin when his fingers clasp around mine. He shakes my hand. The movement is easy and slow, but his grip is tight and strong, and his thumb flexes as it brushes across mine just a little too harshly.

Hello, Mr. Hughes. I declare that you’re interested.

“Does the name reflect the personality?” He quirks a brow, slowly, and the easy way his lips curve into a smirk has my stomach flipping.

“As in bright with a sharp tongue?” I curve my eyebrow upward to match his. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Mr. Hughes?”

His grip on mine tightens, and he pulls me toward him. It’s hard enough that I have to step forward to keep my balance. “Absolutely,” he responds. “I have sixty minutes of this little slice of hell before I’m out of here. Convince me to stay longer.”

Sixty minutes. Excellent. Thirty less than I’d planned for.

I brush my finger down the center of his stomach, its smooth journey interrupted by the bump of his button. “I would… except I have no interest in drawing this out any longer than it needs to be. Looks like you’re stuck to sixty minutes of my stunning company.” I smile sweetly, pat his deliciously firm stomach, and step back.

“Really,” he drawls, grasping the back of my chair as I sit and pushing me in. “Stunning—is that the personality or the looks?”

“I’d love to tell you, but where’s the fun in that?” I follow him with my eyes as he takes the seat opposite me. “You’ll just have to find out for yourself.”

He drops his head as he sits, but those startling green eyes raise beneath thick, dark lashes to meet mine. “Can I get you another drink, Ms. Donnelly?”

“Not as long as you continue to call me Ms. Donnelly.”

“Bee,” he corrects himself, his lips quirking again. “A nickname?”

“Unfortunately not,” I reply. “My father was… eccentric.”

He smiles as he waves a confident hand in the general direction of a server. “Red or white?”

“Blush.”

“Clearly the stunning part of your previous statement wasn’t your personality,” he teases, turning to the server. “A bottle of your finest blush wine for the lady, and I’ll have your best merlot. Thank you.”

“A bottle, Mr. Hughes? Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Will you stay longer than an hour?”

“Absolutely not.”

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “I’ll ask you after another glass.” He grins, and it’s playful, an endearingly charming smile.

I’d bet he uses that on all the girls.

I curl my fingers around the stem of my wine glass, swirl the small amount of pink liquid left, and drink it in one. “And my answer will be the same.”

An hour in the restaurant, I mean. If he felt like taking it outside would be proactive, I’d be down with that. This man is fucking fine. And by fine, I mean he’s fucking fah-ha-hiiiiine.

“What do you do?” I ask, acknowledging the server with a tilt of my head as he fills my glass. Halfway. Professional, but ridiculous. Wine glasses should be full at all times.

“I work in business,” Carter Hughes answers. “And you?”

“I also work in business, along with one hundred percent of working Americans.”

“You’re kind of sassy, you know that?”

“Kind of? No, sir. I’m incredibly sassy. I’m just handing it to you in small doses so you don’t get overwhelmed.” Another sweet smile.

“Bee,” he says it in a low voice, leaning toward me, his glass raised to his lips. “If you think it’s your sass that’s overwhelming, you haven’t looked in the mirror.”

“Well, that’s sweet, isn’t it?”

“And true.”

“That’s what they all say.” I pause. “Are you trying to get in my panties? Because it’s a little early, don’t you think?”

“For sex?” He takes one long, slow drink, his eyes never wavering on me. “It’s never too early for sex.”

Huh. We agree on that, then. “Unless that sex is the morning after when one of you should have left in the middle of the night.”

Carter’s lips move slowly, oh so slowly, into a smile that is equal parts amused and predatory. A thrill runs down my spine—and I know why. It’s cat and mouse.

The chase.

It’s starting.

“Oh, Bee,” he mutters. Darkly. So, so darkly. “Could it be that I’m finally on a date with someone that understands my aversion to that commitment bullshit?”

“Please don’t use the ‘c’ word in my presence. It makes me sick.”

His eyes flash with a hint of desire. “You know, I find myself not hungry at all. Shall we move this conversation into the bar?”

“Great idea,” I say, grabbing my wine glass, then my purse from the back of the chair.

He lifts his hand, waves, and a server appears as if by magic. “Can you have this wine bottle moved through to booth one and have my usual on the table? Thank you.”

I raise one eyebrow as he stands, the server smoothly removing the wine bucket from the table and heading out through a door. Hell, I didn’t even know this restaurant had a separate bar area, never mind booths.

Carter holds out his hand, his fingers stretched toward me. “Shall we?”

Ignoring my best friend’s eyes on me, I place my smaller hand in his and stand. “You seem to know this place well,” I comment casually, taking a step in front of him.

His hand finds its way to the small of my back, and he leans in so his lips brush my ear. His breath coasts across my cheek in a thick swath of warmth. “Bee, I own this restaurant.”

“And I’m assuming it was your intention to bring every date to it,” I say dryly.

“On the contrary, I do my best to avoid dates and my business. However, I was tied to this by my buddy’s insistence of having this, and his date’s insistence on it being a double. My restaurant was, naturally, the only one that could free two tables at such short notice.”

Ah. I knew Charley was a dirty liar. Her date just happened to have a single friend my ass. “How very convenient for you.”

“Is it? Does the fact I own this building bother you?”

“Why would it? All I know about you is that your name is Carter Hughes, you want to get me drunk because it isn’t too early for sex, and you own this fine establishment.” I turn so I’m walking backward, and careful of my glass, grasp the lapel of his jacket. “Honey, I won’t remember your name tomorrow morning, let alone the rest of that. So, no, you can say it doesn’t bother me at all.”

We move into a seating area that’s darker than the restaurant. The only lighting is really from the bar area. It’s all black marble and black leather seating here, from the stools lining up along the glass bar to the cushioned booth seating. And it’s all couples—two people to a booth, despite the fact each one could easily sit six. Each one is curtained, too. Translucent black curtains cover the openings, and Carter tightens his grip on me as he reaches for one of them.

“Take a seat,” he breathes into my ear.

Okay.

I slip past him and drop myself on the seat. “This is… different.”

“The bar area is… exclusive,” he explains, slowly. “It’s invite only. Otherwise no one would be able to get a booth.”

“And this one? Is yours?” I look around it. There’s a tiny light on the wall, casting an eerily sensual feeling across the small area. The circular table in front of me is just big enough to hold two plates of food, a wine bucket, and a glass or two.

I get the feeling not much eating happens here, though. Unless that eating happens to be a pussy or a cock.

My clit throbs. Is this why he brought me here?

Of course it is, Bee. It’s why you came, you stupid bitch.

“Always,” Carter finally answers my question. He pulls the wine bottle from the bucket, shakes it lightly, then tops up my glass. The ice clinks as he replaces the bottle and reaches for his small tumbler full of amber liquid. It looks like liquid gold in this light. “There are ten booths. Next to you could be a Hollywood sweetheart, a billionaire, a world-famous model… Who knows? I don’t even know. It’s not my business to know.”

“It’s not your business to know about your business?” My lips tug into a small smirk.

His eyes seem to glow as he focuses on me. “I have my own perks within my business. I wouldn’t have brought you back here if I didn’t think you weren’t interested in them.”

I cross one leg over the other, grab my glass, and lean back. “Tell me—what are your perks, Mr. Hughes?”

He flexes his finger against his glass and brings it upward. “My perk, Ms. Donnelly, is wondering how many times I can make you come before I fuck you.”

Heat sizzles through my bloodstream, and goosebumps cover my skin in the silence that follows his words.

Holy. Shit.

That’s forward.

And tempting. Oh so goddamn, motherfucking tempting.

“That’s awfully presumptuous,” I manage to rasp out. I take a quick gulp of wine to wet my throat. “Don’t you think?”

“I’m a presumptuous guy.” He shrugs a shoulder, unaffected.

Of course. “What makes you think you’re going to find out?”

He moves his gaze over me slowly, his eyes darkening with every inch of my skin they touch. My heartbeat picks up until it’s thundering against my ribs and I can feel the beat at every pulse point in my body. There’s a tightening sensation in my stomach that seems to be dropping and resting deep in my pussy, and I’m clenching my muscles, and I wish that awkward ache in my clit would disappear, because I kind of want to jump Carter’s bones right now.

He chuckles, the sound dark and husky, and sets his glass on the table after one final drink. “Oh, Bee.” He skirts across the seat toward me, and I take a deep breath when he reaches up and loosens his tie. “I know I’m going to find out,” he says just as darkly as he just laughed. “Look at you. You’re breathing erratically.” He runs his finger across my collarbone and glances toward the table. “Your hand is trembling where you’re holding your glass, and you keep licking those gorgeous lips of yours.” He trails his hand up my neck. “Not to mention your eyes—they’re wide, and your cheeks are flushed.” He cups my jaw and runs his thumb along the side of it, right down to my mouth. The tip of his thumb ghosts along the soft curve of my lower lip. He’s barely touching me, but it feels as though my mouth is on fire.

He leans in, the tip of his nose only just hovering in front of mine, and he exhales slowly. His breath cascades across my mouth, and I breathe in sharply at the hot burst of air that caresses my lips.

Oh, Jesus.

“Are you wondering yet?” he whispers. “Tell me, Bee. Are you wondering how many times I could make you come? How I’d do it? I am. All I’m thinking about right now is lifting the bottom of your dress, sliding your underwear to the side and fucking you with my fingers until you bite down on my shoulder with pleasure.”

Another burst of heat is making its way through my body. I clamp my thighs together as he drops one hand and draws a trail across my left leg with the tips of his fingers. “I’m thinking that I should leave,” I lie.

“No you’re not.” He smiles and spreads his hand across my thigh. I fight to keep my muscles clenched and ultimately lose. Carter inches his hand up my leg until his fingers tease the hem of my dress and his thumb pushes between my legs. He squeezes my thigh, and unbidden, my legs creep open.

I breathe faster with anticipation, each one harder and more desperate as his hand continues its journey upward.  I drop my head back as he finally reaches the very top of my thigh. His thumb brushes across my panties, and I don’t know if the gentle flick across my clit is deliberate or coincidental, but I shudder.

He drops his face into my neck, repeating that flick. Yeah—that was deliberate. And I hate how good it feels. He smiles against my skin, pushing down hard. The lace of my panties rubs against the sensitive spot roughly, but it only adds to the pleasure, the crazy, intense, burst of pleasure that ricochets as he circles my clit with his thumb.

Oh, God. I’m such a slut. I’ve barely known this man thirty minutes and he’s just slid two of his fingers inside me.

He groans, the sound muffled by my collarbone. “You’re so fucking wet, Bee. Still gonna lie and tell me you think you should leave?”

I open my mouth to respond as he pumps his fingers inside me, but nothing comes out. Instead, I swallow and nod, even as my hips move against his hand.

Greedy pussy. Bad pussy.

I am so grounding her tomorrow morning.

Carter slips his thumb under my panties until it touches my bare clit. His fingers still for the barest second as he finds the sweet spot and settles there, ready to move again. Blood is pumping through my body at lightning speed, and my fingers are wrapped in his jacket, and I’m grasping the seat, digging my nails into the leather as he moves his hand again. My legs are opening wider with each thrust of his fingers into me. His lips skirt their way across my neck, up to my ear and back down, kissing, nibbling, brushing… It’s a sensory overload.

With one final rub of my clit, he pushes me over the edge.

Orgasm one.