Текст книги "Night After Night"

Автор книги: Lauren Blakely

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 10 страниц)

Chapter Four

The Red Line gave new meaning to the word Lilliputian. The restaurant was one long narrow hallway, as if it had been wedged in between the shops on each side. There was a long bar, and a few tables, and they sat at the far end near the restrooms. Clay had been here a few times; it was a popular neighborhood place on a cobblestoned street in the Village and typified what he loved about this eclectic neighborhood – it was thoroughly New York, but it had an individual feel to it from the black and white pictures of steam engines on the walls to the dark red counter to the hip hop playing faintly overhead, R. Kelly’s Ignition.

Julia had finished texting with her sister, and he was glad of that. He had nothing against cell phones, but the sight of one in a woman’s hands while he was with her didn’t sit well with him, and he had his ex Sabrina to thank for that. She’d kept her twitchy little fingers far too busy on the touch screen of her phone, then lied, lied and lied some more about what she’d been doing. She’d been involved in some bad shit, and had dragged him deep down into her troubles too. It had taken him longer than he wanted to untangle himself from those tall tales Sabrina had spun, and the damage she’d done to him. Since then, he’d vowed to stay away from that kind of woman since.

Julia’s phone was tucked away in her purse again, where it belonged. They’d placed their order and she was nibbling on appetizers. She plucked an olive from a small plate, bit it away from the seed sexily, then said, “Do you realize I don’t even know where you’re from?”

“Do you want to know where I’m from?”

“Obviously. I’m asking. I want to get to know you better. Much better,” she said.

“And I want you to get to know me much better. Where do you think I’m from?” he asked, taking a drink of his scotch.

“Chicago.”

He shook his head. “Try again.”

“Ooh. Is this another game? You like games, don’t you? First Mad Libs. Now I get to guess where you’re from. What do I win if I’m right?”

He leaned in close to her, swept her hair from her ear, and spoke in a low rumble. “You can pick the next position. But I know you won’t win.”

“So you’re saying you’re setting me up to fail so you can choose how to take me?”

“You think I’d choose badly? You think I’d pick a position you wouldn’t like?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said softly, and she seemed to let down her guard for a second or two. “I like everything you do.”

He couldn’t resist her, especially not when she dropped the snark, though he loved that about her too. But when she revealed her vulnerable side, he found himself wanting to be even closer to her. “I like doing everything to you,” he said, looking her in the eyes, then brushing his thumb gently over her cheek, before he kissed her softly, drawing out the sexiest little whimper from her gorgeous lips.

She reached for his collar gently, holding on as she kissed back, and it was a kiss that held the promise of so much more. So much of their contact was hard and rough, and they both liked it that way, but this was tender and sweet, and he wanted this side of her too. Judging from how she kissed him, she wanted it too.

Soon, she broke the kiss, and brushed one hand against the other, in a most business-like gesture. “Now that that’s settled, let the games begin.” She studied his face curiously. “California?” She shook her head before he could answer. “No, you’re not happy enough to be from California.”

“I’m very happy,” he said defensively.

“Sure, but California people smile all the time. There’s this thing called sunshine that makes us all dopey and happy.”

“Then how do we account for your sarcasm, Miss California?”

“I’m an outlier,” she said, as a waiter brought them water glasses.

“Water for both of you. And the kitchen is working on your orders. They should be out in about five minutes.”

“Thank you very much,” Clay said, then returned his attention to the beautiful woman by his side who wore no underwear. “I’m not from California.”

“Arizona? Nah. Somehow I don’t think they make them so kinky in Arizona.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “You never know. Arizona could be an incredibly kinky state. There could be entire colonies of kink in Phoenix.”

“If there are colonies, perhaps we should go exploring. But no, you’re not from Arizona, and you’re not from Oregon or Washington either. You’d be crunchy or have more of a penchant for plaid if either were the case.”

“I enjoy your process of elimination,” he said, leaning casually back in his bar chair, crossing his arms. No one ever guessed where he was from because it was the kind of place you weren’t usually from.

She pressed her fingers to her lips, then pointed at him. “And you’re not from Boston because you don’t have an accent, and that’s also why you’re not from the South. Or Texas, even though you feel very Texas,” she said, placing her palm against his shirt, spreading her fingers across his chest, tapping lightly with her fingertips. He was hard instantly from her touch. Damn this woman; everything she did was a direct line to his dick.

“So is there a guess coming, Julia?”

She shrugged happily, held her hands out in an I give up admission. “Salt Lake City,” she said with a smirk, and he laughed at her guess, so intentionally wrong.

“Vegas, baby.”

Her features registered no reaction at first. She was simply silent. then she laughed. Maybe in disbelief. “Really?”

“Yep.”

“No one is from Vegas. Vegas is where you go. Not where you’re from.”

“Born and raised there.”

She held her hand as low to the ground as she could from where she sat. “Like back when you were little?”

He nodded again. “That’s what it means to be born and raised.”

“High school too?”

“Happy to show you my diploma if you need more verification. Lettered in Varsity Football at Desert Hills High on the outskirts of town. Lived there til I moved east for college.”

“And how does one come to live in Vegas?”

“Generally speaking one has parents from there.”

“Clearly. And your parents? What do they do in Vegas?”

“My parents do exactly what you’d expect two people in Vegas to have done. They’re retired now. Mom was a showgirl. Dad owns a small casino off the strip.”

“Wow. That’s just so…” she said, then let her voice trail off.

“So what?”

“Unusual. And surprising,” she said.

“Why is it surprising?”

* * *

You have got to be kidding me.

Her heart had raced when he first said Vegas, but she’d reined it in, relying on her well-honed poker face. Because really, what were the chances that he’d hail from the gambling Mecca?

Of all the places he could be from she’d never have thought it would be the one place that had so much in common with her present, and the life of gambling she led. She’d been a card player long before her mandatory attendance at Charlie’s Tuesday night games. She knew her way around a deck of cards since she taught herself to play in high school, and then continued on during college at UCLA, finding late-night games in the dorms, winning handily most of the time, collecting extra money for her expenses, for textbooks and meal plans. Back then, playing had been fun, something she enjoyed. She and her sister had taken many girls trips to Vegas too in their early twenties. McKenna could never back down from a challenge and even though board games and video games were more of her sister’s speed, she was the ideal cheerleader when they’d played the tables late at night at the Bellagio on those trips.

“Just because you hardly meet anyone from Vegas, that’s all I mean,” she said, making light of her comment. She wasn’t going to tell him more. Not even McKenna knew how much Julia played these days, and how desperately she needed to win. Only her hairdresser had an inkling. It was better that way, safer that way for everyone. McKenna had a rough go of things for a while with her douchebag of an ex-fiancé, but now she’d met Chris and was happy beyond measure. Julia wasn’t going to ruin her sister’s happiness by letting her know about the crap she was dealing with. McKenna would only be worried, like a good big sister. But there was nothing McKenna could do about her debt, so there was no reason to let her know. She had to shield her sister from her troubles. If she kept McKenna in the dark, she could better protect her from Charlie’s shadow, and any harm he might do. The same went for Charlie; the less he knew about her family, the better. Chris and McKenna both ran successful, high-profile TV shows; she didn’t want Charlie to get a piece of them. They were precisely the type of meal he enjoyed best – they were flush with green.

“You like Vegas?”

“I do. And I can hold my own at a blackjack table.”

“Yeah?”

“Why? You think women can’t gamble?”

“Why would I think that? Do I look like a sexist pig?”

“No,” she said with a laugh, and held up her hands in surrender. “Do you play?”

He nodded. “I play poker a couple times a month. One of my lawyer buddies has a regular card game going on. A few of my clients play.”

“Do you let them win?”

He laughed, and shook his head. “Never. They’d know if I were letting them win. Besides, they’re A-list actors and producers.”

“Name dropper,” she said, bumping her shoulder against his.

“Did I say their names?” he tossed back. “Anyway, they don’t give a shit how much they win or lose.”

“Nobody likes losing,” she said, trying to keep the sharp edge from her voice. She despised losing because it kept her chained to that man, tied even longer to a debt that wasn’t hers. Nobody could shrug off losing. But then, what did she know? She didn’t have tons to gamble with, so she hated losing even more.

“True, but we all just play for fun. Nothing more, nothing less. Couple guys, smoking cigars, talking shit, and laying down some bets. My second favorite past time,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

She flashed him a naughty grin, but inside a sliver of envy wedged itself in her heart. She wanted to love the game, and part of her still did. But that part was crushed like an old cardboard box by the weight of all that she owed. Charlie had subverted both her skill and her love of poker into something dirty, making her his ringer to take down poker babies. Someday, she’d like to play again for fun. Hell, maybe she could even tolerate losing if she didn’t face the consequences of knives, guns and threats to her livelihood.

“I know what your first favorite past time is,” she said, trailing her finger along his thigh.

“We could combine the two. You’d be nice to play strip poker with,” he added.

“I’d beat you,” she said instantly. She knew she would. Confidence coursed through her.

“I’d have to say in that game with you, I’m winning either way.”

“You’re an interesting man, Clay Nichols,” she said, smiling at him. But smiling inside too. She was enjoying herself so much, and so much more than she had in ages. There was something about him that simply worked extraordinarily well with her. They had chemistry in the bedroom in spades, but they could talk too, and that was almost a magical thing. Rare too. You didn’t often come across someone who captivated your mind and your body.

“Am I?”

“You are, and I want to know more about you. So you have a little brother. Where does he live?”

“Ah, the topic you were saving for dinner. Brent is in Vegas too.”

“Wait. Let me guess.” She flung her hand over her forehead, mimicking a fortune teller. “He’s a magician. He has an act with tigers and disappearing roses.”

He shook his head. “Nope. But you’re close in that he’s on stage. He’s a comedian.”

She shook her head, bemused with his family story. “Your family does all the things you never really think anyone does.”

“And we have Thanksgiving together every year too. Mom makes a turkey, dad carves it, and Brent bakes a pumpkin pie.”

“Oh stop. That’s far too normal to be believed. Aren’t you supposed to have issues? Like everyone these days? Hate your dad or mom? Or something,” she said because her ex, Dillon, certainly was like that. Most of the men she’d known were prickly toward their families and, come to think of it, that might be yet another reason why they were exes. Shouldn’t a man have a little respect for his mom and dad? There was no badge of honor given for hating your parents simply because that’s what most modern men and women did.

“What can I say?” He held out his hands in mock surrender. “I aim to defy modern stereotypes. I might have grown up around gamblers, tits and ass, but there was no drama. No dysfunction.”

“Though it gave you an appreciation for tits and ass, I presume?”

“Huge appreciation for them,” he said, then paused. “Why? Were you thinking I had some horrible childhood and that’s why I like to talk dirty to you?”

She pressed her finger against her lips, and peered at the ceiling as if in deep thought. “Actually, I kind of figured you were the same as me and that you just liked it that way.”

“Damn straight. I’m not playing out some childhood trauma in the way I like to have sex,” he said in that smooth, confident voice she loved.

“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

“You’d look sexy smoking a cigar. But then you’d look sexy in just about anything. Which is sort of my point. I like what I like and I like it all with you.”

A shiver raced through her blood at his words. She brushed her lips against his jaw. “I feel the same about you,” she whispered, and he took her in his arms quickly. A warm, strong embrace. He didn’t say anything, just breathed her in, and she did the same. The moment felt suspended almost, existing in its own blissful bubble of possibility. Her mind toyed with all the potential of the two of them, of the ways this moment could turn into many more. She liked being with him so much, maybe too much.

“What’s your story?” He asked after she slipped slowly from his hold.

“Do I like what I like? Or do I appreciate tits and ass, you mean?”

“That’s a valid question. But I suppose I was thinking more along the lines of whether you bake pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving.”

“I’m more of a pecan pie kind of gal. And yes, I have one of those – shockers – normal families too. Though not nearly as exciting as yours. Mom’s in real estate, dad’s an orthodontist, and they live in Sherman Oaks, California, where I grew up. My best friend is my sister. Well, my other best friend is my hair stylist, Gayle, but then who else does a woman tell all her secrets to but her hairdresser,” she said playfully.

“I hate secrets,” Clay said in a harsh tone, with narrowed eyes. His words jolted her. Like she’d been shocked by the unexpected ire in his statement. Julia’s gaze drifted down; his fists were clenched.

“What do you mean?”

“Secrets eat away at people,” he said, practically spitting out the words on the red counter.

She’d touched some kind of nerve.

Chapter Five

Okay, fine. She got it – secrets could suck. But she had a big one, and she didn’t need or want to feel like she was doing something wrong by keeping it. She had no choice. She was boxed in by her awful ex and what he’d done to her, and now by what Charlie was doing to her as he made her pay for Dillon’s crimes – crimes he blamed on her. Some days she felt like she’d never get out from under it all. Not from Charlie and not from the need for secrets and lies.

She grabbed the steering wheel of the conversation and swerved out of the way of the topic. “I have a secret I can tell you. Mine is that I’m wearing no underwear.”

That earned her a wicked grin. He laid a strong hand on her knee. “Hardly a secret. I knew that. Tell me things that are secret now, but won’t be in a few seconds. Tell me what you love most in the world,” he said.

“Cupcakes, my sister, and freedom,” she said, and truer words were never spoken.

“And what do you hate most?”

That was easy. Too easy. “Owing things,” she said, and because she didn’t want to discuss it more she turned the questions back on him. “What do you love most in the world?”

“Scotch. Ties. Movies. Family.”

“And what do you hate most?”

“Lies. I hate lies.”

“But you’re a lawyer,” she said, furrowing her brow.

“So that means I can’t dislike lies?”

“Don’t you have to lie for a living?”

“No. I don’t have to lie,” he said, and his voice was strong and passionate. “I fight. I fight for what my clients want. There’s a difference.”

“What else do you fight for?”

“For the things I want.”

“Do you want me?” She asked, turning the conversation down another street yet again.

“I want you so fucking much, Julia,” he said, and he wasn’t giving an order or command this time. There was something almost naked in his voice. A vulnerability that he let show now and then. He pulled her close, buzzed his lips along her jaw, then up to her ear. “I meant it when I said I couldn’t stop thinking about you all week. I wanted to fuck you and I wanted to talk you. I want to spend more time with you. I want to get to know you more and more. You fascinate me,” he said, kissing her neck, his sandpaper stubble rough against her skin, the feel of him melting her inside.

His words too sent a shudder through her, filling her with that delicious feeling of falling in like with someone. Of flutters and wishes and the hope for more – more time, more moments. But saying she wanted more was hard for her. Letting someone in was even tougher because she knew where it might lead to – to her being owned in yet another way she’d never see coming. So she shifted back to the pure truth of the physical.

“Now you’re turning me on again,” she whispered.

“It’s a good thing you’re not wearing any panties.”

“Oh yeah. Why’s that?”

He pulled away, glanced around the restaurant as if he were sweeping it for spies, then reached into his back pocket. There were a few other diners at nearby tables, as well as the bartender and the waiter. He took his hand from his pocket, his fingers curled around in a fist, like he was hiding something.

“Are you a good actress?” he asked.

“Sure. Why?”

“Because I’m going to test you right now.” He slid his hand under her skirt; her legs were hidden under the edge of the counter. Then she felt it – a buzzing against her bare thigh.

“What is that?” She hitched in her breath.

“Something I got for you,” he said. “Do you like coming?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Our dinner will be here any minute,” he said, tipping his chin towards the waiter who scurried to the kitchen. “I want you to come before he arrives with the food.”

“Clay,” she said under her breath, but when he pressed his finger against her center, she bit her lip to silence her groan. The vibration was intense. He had some kind of mini-vibrator strapped to his index finger, and he wasn’t messing around. He was hitting her right where she was hot for him, and the sudden friction against her clit turned her insides molten.

“Show me what a good actress you are.”

“I’m a great actress,” she said, through gritted teeth as he teased the vibrator in a dizzying circle around her flesh. Delicious sensations flooded her body, and she fought her impulse to hold onto the edge of the counter, as he rubbed her faster, sending sparks racing through her bloodstream.

A couple having dinner a few tables away pushed back their chairs, the legs scraping across the wood floor. The man held the woman’s coat, and the woman looked in Julia’s direction as she slid her arms into the sleeves. Julia plastered on a fake smile, pressing her lips firmly together, clamping inside her mouth all the moans and scream and cries she wanted to unleash.

“I’m looking forward to eating. I hope the food arrives soon,” Clay mused, keeping one hand under her skirt as he reached for his scotch with his free hand. He tapped her clit with the vibrator – gently but insistently – sending an exquisite pulse between her legs that spread like ripples, reaching all the way to her fingertips.

Oh god. She wanted to roll her eyes in pleasure, to spread her legs wide.

“What about you, Julia? You hungry for your risotto?” He tilted his head to the side, giving her a deliberately curious stare.

“Sure.” She sucked in a moan as a wave of intensity slammed between her legs. She ached with a desperate desire to be touched, to be felt. To come. He moved his finger back and forth, the pad of the vibrator driving her into another world of pleasure. Involuntarily, her shoulders curled in.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she choked out.

“You sure?” He stroked her fast, then faster. “You don’t seem like yourself?”

“Just hungry,” she muttered as he pushed harder against her swollen clit, bathing her entire being with the thrilling sensations of vibration. She could barely take it anymore. She’d been reduced to nothing but feelings, but the raw physical need for release from the flames lapping up her being. She wanted to throw back her head, run her hands through her hair, slide her palms down her own body to savor every second. But she knew how to bluff. She knew how to fake it.

“I think the food’s on its way,” he said, gesturing with his eyes to the kitchen door. The waiter appeared, holding it open with his elbow, balancing plates along his arm.

Julia swallowed hard, and wanted to pant, to moan, to scream. She wanted to climb up the walls, to rub herself against Clay’s thigh, something, anything, to relieve the build inside that was teetering on the edge of explosion.

“Looks like he’ll be here any second. What about you? You ready?”

“I think I might be,” she said in a choppy voice, trying so hard not to give an inch.

But he was hitting her where her body sang, turning her up, all the way on. And if she were alone with him, she’d have grabbed his shoulders and held on hard. Instead, she gripped the edge of the stool, her sharp nails digging into the wood, surely leaving scratch marks, as she channeled there all her desires to writhe and moan and let herself bathe in the bliss of the orgasm that rocketed through her body. She was coming, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. The orgasm was on a high-speed chase, tearing around curves, racing through every cell. Julia Bell was coming at the bar, eyes wide open, lips sealed shut, body still as still could be. Every inch of her was lit up and ignited.

The waiter set down their plates as her entire body buzzed with the delicious tingles of an orgasm she hid fiercely.

“Your risotto, miss,” he said, gesturing to the plate. Then he set down Clay’s meal. “Do you need anything else?”

“I believe I have everything I could possibly want,” Clay said, then flashed a quick smile, before turning to her. “What about you? Do you need anything more?”

“I’m good,” she said, her eyes bugging out.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said with a satisfied sigh, that one syllable strung out, the only hint of what had just gone down.

The waiter left, and she picked up her fork. “I am famished.”

“You deserve some sort of award for that performance.”

“My reward will be torturing you when you least expect it.”

“I will count down the seconds until that kind of torture comes my way.”