Текст книги "Night After Night"
Автор книги: Lauren Blakely
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Night After Night
Lauren Blakely
Book #1 in the Seductive Night series
Chapter One
The ace of diamonds was solo.
Such a shame because it would look fantastic paired with, say, an ace of clubs, spades or hearts. But this was the hand she was dealt and it was ace high, nothing more. They were down to three still standing for this round – Julia, the Trust Fund Baby, and then New Guy. His name was Hunter, he was a beanpole and his hair was short, spiky and blond. He wore khaki pants and a plaid shirt, and had twitchy fingers. Probably because there was a no-cell-phone rule during the game, and he was missing out on emails from his team, Julia guessed.
She bet he was an Internet startup type, maybe a venture capitalist. He was used to risks, he liked to take them. That’s why he’d been brought to this game, recruited specifically to play with her. But the trouble was – well, trouble for him – he laughed when he bluffed. Julia spotted it early and then tracked it. He’d done it with a pair of fives a couple rounds back that she easily beat with two jacks. He’d chuckled softly too with his king high a few hands ago.
Bless that newbie. He couldn’t even hide his tell, and Julia could kiss him if he kept this up because it made her job so much easier.
“Five hundred,” he said confidently, pushing another black chip into the pile as he cleared his throat. Julia was a panther poised for prey; muscles taut and frozen, lying in wait for the sign.
Then it came. It started in his nose, like a small, playful snort, then traveled to his belly, and finally turned into a quick, rumbly laugh.
Ah, brilliant. She could smell potential victory in the air. Of course, she could also smell the pork dumplings and pepper steak from Mr. Pong’s downstairs. When she’d first started coming here to this second floor apartment parked atop a restaurant in China Town that smelled of takeout even when pizza had been ordered for the games, she was sure she’d never remove the scent from her clothes, much less her nostrils. Perma-scent. But she’d had no problems in the laundry department and as for her nose, well, she was used to the smell that permeated every pore on Tuesday nights.
She never ate here, especially not with the bulldozer-sized heavy who stood guard over the game in the kitchen. He had a name and she knew his name, but who cared what it was? To her he was simply Skunk; he had one streak of white in his dyed black hair. His meaty fingers were jammed into the cold cut plate, pawing through the leftover slices of deli meat. Julia wanted to roll her eyes, crinkle her nose, or shoot him a hard stare.
She knew better though. For many reasons, not the least of which was the square outline of the handle of the Glock poking at the hem of his pants. He’d never pulled it, but the gun was an omnipresent reminder that a bullet could be unleashed at a moment’s notice. She shivered inside at the thought, but outside she showed no emotion, not toward Skunk, not toward Hunter the pawn, and certainly none for Trust Fund Baby when he shrugged, blew a long stream of air through his lips, and slammed his cards down. He held his hands out wide. “I’m out.”
Then there were two.
She eyed the pot, her hand, and the newbie.
Her heart thumped, and a fleet of nerves ghosted through her, but only briefly.
Don’t let on.
She had no tells. Her face was stone. She’d mastered the impassive look a long time ago. She could fake her way through anything. A perfect liar, the ninth grade school guidance counselor had declared when Julia denied punching Amelia Cartwright in the nose after Amelia had called another girl a nasty name.
“Did you just hit Amelia Cartwright?”
“No,” Julia had said. She didn’t shuffle her feet. She didn’t look away. She’d lied like it was the truth and that had served her well ever since then.
Perfect lie = perfect truth.
She plucked out a black chip from her stack, then another, rolling them back and forth between the pads of her thumb and index finger, her fire-engine red nails long and lacquered. The nails were part of the look – low-cut tops, tight jeans and four-inch high black pumps for every game. The regulars knew her, but the new players never took a woman seriously, especially when she dressed like it was girls night out.
That’s why newbies were brought in. So she could hustle them. It was better that they underestimate her.
“I’ll raise you $500,” she said in an emotionless voice, sliding two chips into the pile.
This was the moment. Nerves like steel. Blood like ice.
Hunter sucked in a deep breath, like he was trying to inhale a thick malt from a thin straw. He stared longingly at the pile of chips in the middle of the table, chewed on the corner of his lip, and glanced at his cards one last time.
“I’m out,” he said, slapping the cards down on the scratched-up table that reeked of noodles, beer and regret. If tables could talk, this one could tell stories of all the bets won and lost here, all the highs and lows it witnessed.
“Then I’ll take this,” she said, not needing to reveal her ace high, as she reached across the table and gathered up the pot.
She stood, walked straight to Skunk, and handed him the chips. “I’ll cash out.”
He stuffed a rolled-up slice of bologna between his thick lips, inhaled the meat, then licked off his stubby fingers before he counted out her money. Nearly five thousand, and she wanted to sing, to shout, to soar.
“You want me to give this to Charlie?”
She shook her head. “I will.”
“I’ll walk you downstairs.”
As if she were going anyplace else but to deliver the dough.
Still, Skunk followed her, serving as her handcuffs, huffing as he waddled down the steps.
“You played good tonight,” he said in between heavy breaths.
“Thanks,” she said, wishing she’d liked playing so well. Like she once did. She used to love poker like there was no tomorrow, a true favorite past time. Now it was tainted.
“I’m proud of you,” he said, patting her on the back.
Inside, she recoiled at his touch. On the outside, she acted like it was no big deal. Like none of this was a big deal.
A minute later, they weaved through the tables to the back of Mr. Pong’s restaurant, mostly empty at this late hour. Charlie was hunched over in a chair, swiping his finger across the screen of his iPad. He wore a sharp black suit, a white shirt and no tie. He smiled when he saw her, baring his teeth, yellowed from smoking.
The sight of him made her skin crawl.
His eyes traveled up and down her body hungrily. She pretended he wasn’t undressing her in his mind. She handed him the cash. “Here.”
“Ah, it’s my favorite color. Green from Red,” he said, stroking the cash.
She told him the number. “Count it.”
“I trust you, Red.” His accent was some sort of mix of Greek and Russian. Not Chinese though, despite the headquarters in ChinaTown. From the little bits and pieces she had cobbled together he both liked Chinese food, and had taken over this restaurant and the apartment above it. Probably from some poor schmuck who’d owed him too. Someone who didn’t make good on a debt.
“I don’t trust you though,” she said sharply.
“Funny,” he said as he laughed, then counted the bills. “Very funny. Do you tell jokes that funny when you are working behind your bar? Or should I drop by sometime to check?”
Red clouds passed before her eyes. Julia clenched her fists; channeling her anger into her hands as she bit her tongue. She knew better than to incite him. Still, she hated it when Charlie mentioned her bar, hated it almost as much as his unplanned visits to Cubic Z. Drop-ins, he called them. Like a restaurant inspector popping in whenever he wanted.
“You are welcome anytime at my bar,” she said through gritted teeth.
“I know,” he said pointedly. “And the next time I’m there the pretty bartender will make me a pretty drink.”
When he was done counting, he dropped his hand into the pocket of his pants, slowly rooted around, and withdrew a slender knife. Only a few inches long and more like a camping tool it was hardly a weapon, but it didn’t need to possess firepower to send the message – he could cut her to pieces if she failed to deliver. He brought the case to his chin, scratched his jaw once, twice, like a dog with fleas, keeping his muddy brown eyes on her the whole time in a sharp, taut line. He didn’t blink. He shoved the knife back into his pocket, then raised his hand and snapped his fingers. Some kind of business goon scurried over, a leather bound ledger tucked under his arm. “I knew you could take the VC,” Charlie said to her, a nefarious glint in his eye. “That’s why we brought Hunter for you. You did a good job separating the fool from his money.” Julia’s insides twisted with the way Charlie talked. Then he turned to his associate who’d opened the book. “Mark this down in the books. Red is a little bit closer.”
The guy scribbled in a number.
“A lot closer,” Julia corrected.
“A lot. A little. What’s the difference? The only thing that matters –” Charlie stopped to raise a finger in the air, then come swooping down with it, like a pelican eyeing prey as he stabbed her name in the ledger “–is when this says zero. Until then, you are a lot, you are a little, you are mine. Now, you want some kung pao chicken? It’s considered the best in San Francisco by all the critics.”
She shook her head. “No thanks. I’ve had my fill tonight.”
“I will see you next Tuesday then. Shall I send one of my limos for you?”
“I’ll walk.”
She turned on her heels and left, walking home in the cool San Francisco night, leaving Charlie and his chicken behind her.
When she returned to her apartment, she tried to push the game out of her mind as she let the door slam. She washed her hands, poured herself a glass of whiskey, and was about to reach for the remote so she could lose herself in some mindless TV when her phone rang. A 917 number flashed across the screen. Her heart dared to flutter. Dumb organ. Then her belly flipped. Stupid stomach.
But it was two against three because only her common sense said don’t answer, and common sense wasn’t winning. The brain rarely bested the body. The caller was Clay Nichols who she’d met a few days ago while she was tending bar. The tall, dark, gorgeous, filthy-mouthed lawyer from New York who fucked like a champion and called her irresistible, and then asked her to tell him more about all the things she liked as they lay tangled up in hotel sheets, blissed out.
The man who lived 3000 miles away. The man she was sure was full of shit when he said he’d call her again. The man she’d spent some of the best twenty-four hours of her life with.
She answered on the second ring. “Hello, person I never thought I’d hear from again.”
“Hey, Julia. What would you say about coming to New York for the weekend?”
A smile started to form on her lips. “Tell me why I would want to go to New York for the weekend,” she said, sinking down on her couch, crossing her ankles.
“For starters, I have a new set of ropes I’ve been meaning to use, and a restaurant I want to try, and a big king-size bed you’d look spectacular tied up to. Oh, and there’s also a new heist movie coming out this weekend that we could see.”
She laughed. “Let me get this straight. I’m being invited to the Big Apple for dinner, a movie and a little bondage?”
“Yes, that would be correct.”
She didn’t answer right away. Her mind flashed back to her big win tonight. Regardless of the chains Charlie had on her, she was closer. And while she’d promised herself she wouldn’t get involved with anyone til she was free, Clay wasn’t asking for more than two nights of her life. Two nights were thoroughly finite, and therefore could be thoroughly enjoyed. She had off this weekend. Besides, the very thought of Clay had a way of erasing some of the evening, of blotting out those moments when she was so clearly under Charlie’s thumb.
“Then the answer is pick me up at the airport in a town car, handsome, because I’m going to be ready for all of that and then some as soon as I step off the plane,” she said, as she kicked off her heels, and took a drink of her whiskey, enjoying the burn as the liquor slid down her throat.
They chatted for longer, and soon the tone shifted, and his voice lowered. “What are you wearing right now?”
“What do you want me to be wearing?”
“Thigh-high white stockings, lacy white panties, and a matching bra,” he answered immediately.
“And what would you do if I were wearing that?”
“Drive you crazy through the lace with my tongue, then take your panties off with my teeth.”
She didn’t think it was the whiskey anymore that was making her feel warm all over. “Funny thing, Clay. I believe that’s what I’ll be wearing on Friday afternoon.”
The next day, she went lingerie shopping.
* * *
Carefully, so as not to run the nylon, Julia inched the stocking up her thigh. Her sister sat perched on a peach-colored armchair in the corner of the spacious dressing room of Hetty’s Secret Closet on Union Street. McKenna absently kicked her ankle back and forth, a pleasantly distracting sight because her heels were sparkly peacock blue, matching her sapphire-colored skirt.
“What do you think?” Julia asked as she twirled around to give a full view of the bra, panty and stocking set.
A well-known fashion blogger, her sister has suggested this chic boutique for the shopping trip. Now, McKenna surveyed her up and down, pressing a finger to her lips as if she were studiously considering the undergarments in question. “It’s a good thing you don’t get cold easily. It’s chilly in New York in April. I was just there.”
Julia rolled her eyes. “It’s not as if I’m going to strut around the Big Apple in this get-up only,” she said, gesturing to her lingerie ensemble.
“I’m just checking,” she said with a wink. “You’ll pair it with what? A trench coat?”
“No. This thing called a skirt. Ever heard of it? Then a blouse too. Then the trench coat.”
“I am pleased to inform you,” her sister began, flashing a bright smile, “You have the Fashion Hound seal of approval on your sexy outfit.”
“Exactly why I keep you around.” Julia began stripping off the stockings, the underwear and the bra.
“Wait. Don’t I get a little sashay of the hips and all? A lap dance maybe?”
“I’m saving that all for Friday, Saturday and Sunday.”
“You must really like this guy if he gets your whole weekend. You haven’t given anyone three days in a long, long time.”
“I haven’t given anyone any days in a long, long time,” Julia corrected, as she neatly folded the items, then pulled on her jeans.
“Not since Dillon.”
“Yep, not since Dillon,” she said, turning away because she didn’t want McKenna to see how much it hurt to even hear that name breathed. Dillon was the reason she kept secrets from her sister, and from everyone. She shifted gears to her sister’s upcoming wedding. “Hey, when are we going for your next dress fitting?”
“When you get back from New York, and we can pick your maid of honor dress too,” McKenna said in a voice laced with true happiness. She’d found her match, and her happily ever after was in her hands. Julia wasn’t jealous, not one bit. She was glad for her sister, even though the notion of a happy ending seemed about as far away to her as living on the moon.
* * *
Cubic Z was buzzing at happy hour. Thursday night was one of the busiest of the week, drawing in the one-more-day-til-the-weekend crowds of twentysomethings as they spilled out of their nearby offices here in the SoMa district of San Francisco. Finance and tech guys and gals abounded, ordering up microbrews or fancy cocktails.
As Julia mixed a vodka tonic, she turned to her partner-in-crime Kim. The petite brunette behind the bar was pouring a raspberry ale from the tap, while absently running a palm across her round belly. She was due in a few months. The first baby for Kim and her husband.
“You’re all set to run this place solo for the weekend?” Julia asked.
Kim rolled her eyes and shot her a look as if to say she were being ridiculous. “I run this place when you’re not here. I know what to do. Besides, Craig is going to help me out,” she said, as she handed the glass to a regular customer, a skinny guy who always stopped by after work. Kim and Julia were both part owners of Cubic Z; they’d bought an ownership stake a year ago, so they served drinks and made sure drinks served the bottom line. Kim’s husband had just finished bartending school but hadn’t nabbed a job yet so she was the sole source of support for the two of them.
“I know. I just wanted to make sure. What can I say? I’m looking out for you and the baby already,” Julia said, as she slid the vodka concoction to a customer.
“Yeah, protect us from all the unsavory types,” Kim joked, because Cubic Z was upscale, and didn’t attract that sort of clientele. “Like that guy,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper as she tipped her forehead to the door. A man stood with his back to them, talking to a friend, a shock of white in his dark hair. Tension knit itself tightly inside Julia, shooting cold through her bones. She didn’t want Skunk anywhere near her bar. He’d been here once and once was enough. He’d parked himself in a bar stool, ordered a drink, and said one thing and one thing only, as he nodded, surveying the joint, “Yeah, I like this place. I like it a lot. You give good pour.”
But when the man swiveled around, he wasn’t Skunk. He wasn’t anyone Julia knew. And there wasn’t a reason for her veins to feel like ice. She shrugged it off, the worry that tried to trip her up now and then, the fear that Charlie or Skunk would hurt her or someone she cared about. They hadn’t yet. But they could in a heartbeat.
Chapter Two
Clay finished off the rest of his scotch, then glanced at his watch.
“Got someplace to be?” Michele asked.
Damn. He was caught checking the time again, a bad habit he’d started since he invited Julia to join him in New York this weekend. It was nearing ten, and he should cut out of this bar and head home. She’d be arriving tomorrow, and tomorrow evening couldn’t come fast enough.
“Yeah. Bed,” he said dryly. Michele was his best friend Davis’s sister, and his friend too. The three of them had known each other since college. She was one year younger, but had followed in her brother’s footsteps, attending the same university.
“I remember when you used to be out til all hours,” Michele teased, shooting him a knowing smile, as she ran her fingers through her dark hair. Michele was a pretty woman, always had been, but there was nothing between them. Not since they’d shared a kiss one night at a drunken college party. A kiss that had never been repeated, and he’d chalked it up to her being sad that night over the anniversary of her parents’ death and needing some kind of connection. Understandable. Completely understandable.
“Hardly,” he said, because he wasn’t the party boy type, but then he wasn’t usually the first one to leave either. Tonight, however, needed to end early because tomorrow was the one he wanted to last all night long. He called for the check, fished some bills from his wallet, and paid for their drinks.
“Why are you leaving so soon?”
“Because the glass is empty. I’ll get you a cab,” he said, and walked out with her, the neon lights of the diner across the street flickering behind them. “Do you want to…” she said, but the rest of her words were swallowed by the sound of a siren a few blocks over.
“Want to what?” he asked when the noise faded.
She swallowed, then spoke quickly, faster than usual. “Do something this weekend? Have dinner maybe?”
He shot her a look like she wasn’t making sense, as he hailed the first taxi he saw. “Davis is out of town,” he said. He and Michele didn’t have dinner together. Drinks maybe. But dinners were something the three of them did together, and Davis was off in London for a few months, directing a production of Twelfth Night that Clay had hooked him up with.
“Yeah. I know,” she said. “That’s sort of the point.”
“Point of what?”
She shook her head. Rolled her eyes. “Nothing. It was nothing,” she said, and something about her tone seemed clipped.
“You okay?”
She nodded quickly. Too quickly. “I’m great,” she said, as he held open the cab door for her. “Anyway, you probably have big plans this weekend.”
“I think it’s safe to say I’ll be tied up,” he said, though as her cab sped off, he realized it was more likely the other way around. That Julia would be.
He hoped she would be at least.
* * *
He’d woken up at four-thirty, worked out at five, and hit the office by six-thirty. He’d skipped lunch, ordered in a sandwich, and reviewed a contract for a new sci-fi flick a movie director he repped was working on. He sent in notes to the producers, a list of points and items that needed to be changed, and if they weren’t his client wouldn’t be happy, and Clay was all about having a hefty stable full of happy clients.
His junior partner at the firm, Flynn, poked his head in around mid-afternoon. “Hey. I got a lead that the Pinkertons are looking for new representation,” Flynn said, his blue eyes wide and grinning. A pair of British brothers, the Pinkertons had been bankrolling some of the most successful films in the last few years including Escorted Lives, based on the bestselling books.
“We need to lock that up,” he said and he was sure the glint in his eyes matched his partner. Flynn was three years younger and eager as hell to grow his role at Clay’s firm. He’d hired him fresh out of law school, and Flynn had become invaluable, pulling more than his weight in helping to land top clients and sweet deals for them. They’d seen eye to eye on just about everything, with the exception of one minor rough patch a year ago over a client that Flynn had reeled in all on his own – a big-time action film director.
A client they’d lost.
“No kidding,” Flynn said, tapping the side of the door twice for good luck. Flynn was like that, always crossing his fingers, and knocking on wood. “I’ll get some more details and aim to set a meeting with them next week.”
“Perfect. The Pinkertons are huge golfers, so if you have to schedule a tee time, you should,” he said, and it wasn’t so much a suggestion, as it was an order. One he knew Flynn, a former college golfer, would jump at.
Flynn mimed swinging a club. “Shame I hate golf so much,” he joked.
“All right, get out of here. I need to finish up so I can take the weekend off.”
“I’ll email you when I hear more.”
“I’m not answering email this weekend,” Clay said, making it clear in his tone that this was a do-not-disturb kind of weekend. “You can update me on Monday.”
“Fair enough.”
Flynn left, and he checked on Julia’s flight, pleased to see it was landing on time. He brushed his teeth, ran his fingers through his hair, not bothering with a comb, because she was the kind of woman who’d have her fingers sliding through his hair in seconds, messing it up the way she wanted. He said goodbye to the receptionist, let her know she could shut down early too, and slid into the town car waiting outside his office. On the way to the airport, he worked his way through his west coast calls, ending them just as the car pulled up to the terminal.
The sun was blaring, high in the sky in April, so he put on a pair of sunglasses. He loosened his tie; he couldn’t stand the way it constrained him. He glanced at his phone, hoping for a message from her. None was there, so he clicked on the app for his stocks, checking his portfolio, and looking up every few seconds to scan the crowds. He couldn’t focus on the market right now.
He hardly wanted to admit it to himself, but there was something about this moment – the minutes before he saw her – that felt like first date nerves. Like knocking on a woman’s door, and waiting, hoping she’d be just as eager for the night to unfold. Weird, considering the way he and Julia had started. Free of pretense and bullshit, they went straight for each other, the physical chemistry overpowering anything else.
His phone buzzed. He clicked open the message and it sent a bolt of electricity through him. White stockings coming your way…
Stockings – one of those items of clothing on the right woman that could send a man to his knees. Especially the sight of the top of a pair of thigh-highs peeking out from a skirt, revealing an inch of skin, hinting at what lay beneath. On Julia, stockings were a playground for his eager hands.
The nerves in him disappeared and turned into something else – adrenaline, maybe. The sharp, hot charge of desire all through his blood and bones.
He spotted her before she saw him; that red hair was hard to miss, even in a sea of frenzied, frantic travelers jostling for a cab, a car, a bus. She wore a black trench coat, belted at the waist, black heels and white stockings. A grin took over his face; she had done it. Of course she had done it. He was at attention in seconds and his fingers itched to touch her, to peel off those stockings, inch by delicious inch, then lick his way down her legs to her ankles and back up, savoring her every single second.
Leaning against the town car, he kept his eyes on her the entire time as she threaded her way through the crowds. She was a tall drink of woman, and her red hair was blowing in the late afternoon breeze. She brushed some strands away from her face. Soon, she noticed him, smiling wickedly. He nodded, trying to act cool, even as his temperature rose. Then, she was in front of him, and before she said a word, her hands were on his shirt and she pulled him to her, pressing her lips to his.
She was lightning fast. A blur of movement, of teeth and lips and that intoxicating taste of her lipstick that would be gone in seconds.
He responded instantly, kissing her hard like she deserved. Cupping the back of her neck, he jerked her close. He wanted her to remember that she might have made the first move, but he liked to lead. He nipped on her bottom lip, then sucked on her tongue, drawing out a moan from her that pleased him deeply. He kissed more, sliding his tongue over hers as he lowered his hand to her thigh, skimming his fingers along the thin, barely-there fabric of her stockings.
When he broke the kiss, he raised an eyebrow. “They look good on you, and I bet they look good coming off too.”
“Don’t rush it. I want you to enjoy the view.”
“I’ve been enjoying the view since the second I laid eyes on you, gorgeous.”
He opened the door and gestured for her to enter the car, watching the whole time as she stepped inside and crossed her legs, giving him a very brief preview of where the stockings ended. He shook his head approvingly, and she shot him a look that said nothing short of come and get it. He took her suitcase as the driver emerged, scrambling to deposit the black carry-on into the trunk.
After he got in the car and hit the partition button, closing them off from the driver, with the tinted windows shutting them off from the whole wide world.
She looked at him, her pretty green eyes meeting him straight on. That beautiful face, that divine body, and that naughty, naughty mouth – it was hard to believe he’d only spent one night with her. She stared at him like she was as famished as he was. Like she needed the same thing.
“You look like you need to be fucked right now.”
“Do I?”
“You sure do,” he said, raking his eyes over her, perched in the leather seat so properly, and so damn sexy at the same time. He ached to touch her, but savored the tease, so he kept a distance between them, drawing out the tension as the car pulled into afternoon traffic.
“And I suppose you think you can solve that problem?”
“I don’t think so. I know so. And I intend to. But not yet.”
“You gonna toy with me?”
“Been thinking about it.”
“Like a cat playing with a mouse,” she said, her voice nearly a purr.
“You’re hardly a mouse.”
“I know,” she said, then ran her index finger across her bottom lip, then around to her top, so suggestively he nearly tossed his plans to wait out the window. He wanted her now. He wanted her bad, especially with the way her hot gaze was locked on him as she parted her lips, and ran her tongue along her teeth.
A challenge. One that he planned to meet. A low rumble worked its way free of his throat as he moved to her, his body next to her, just a trace of contact. Slowly, so as to torture her, he reached for the belt of her coat, taking his time untying it.
Her breath caught as he started to open her jacket, first one button, then the next, then another. As he worked his way up her chest, undoing the final button, she rolled her eyes in pleasure, closing them briefly as he slid a hand over her right breast, squeezing her.
She stifled a gasp, biting her lip.
“Don’t pretend you’re not turned on.”
“I’m not pretending,” she whispered.
“Then let me hear you moan. I want to hear everything.” She opened her eyes, as he cupped her breasts over the fabric of her clingy sweater. “Are you wet?”
“Yes.”
He glanced down at her short black skirt, already rising up to show more of her strong, shapely thighs. He desperately wanted to slide his hand under her skirt right the fuck now, but patience would be rewarded. “When did you start getting wet?”
“The exact moment?”
“Yes.”
“On the plane.”
“What were you thinking about at 30,000 feet that was getting you wet?” he asked, as his hand drifted down the front of her sweater, traveling over her flat belly.
“About all the things you might say to me.”
“You like the way I talk to you?”
“Why don’t you check and see how much I like it?”
“Why don’t you wait for me to check,” he fired back as he reached under her sweater, spreading his hand across the soft, sweet flesh of her stomach. She moaned as he touched her, and he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to get enough of those sounds this weekend. He might have to spend the next forty-eight hours making her gasp and moan, groan and scream, because her noises were better than a cold drink on a hot day. The sounds she made fed him.
He ran his callused fingers along the waistband of her skirt, and she wiggled closer to his hand. “So your panties were damp all during the flight, Julia?”
