Chapter 4
Carson choked out a laugh.
Then he frowned.
The lady was serious.
As intrigued as he was, it was time to cut to the chase. This whole clandestine rendezvous had gone far enough.
Tomorrow Keller Luttrell was getting his ass kicked.
Carson took control of the encounter by taking a step away from the door, in her direction. “Let’s back this up just a little bit.” Pushing aside the lapels of his jacket, he slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “Is this a business transaction or a social encounter?”
First, he would give her a chance to save face.
“This is not a business transaction.” She moved a step toward him, calling his bluff. “This is about birthdays, celebrations, and physical attraction.”
Her confidence ignited a new kind of anticipation before he could check the reaction.
Whoever had given her cues had known all the right buttons to push.
Carson hated celebrating birthdays and holidays alone .
. . that was why he didn’t do either anymore.
Further, there was nothing he liked more than a challenge. No one knew that better than Luttrell.
“I like what I see and I’m certain the feeling is mutual,” she added frankly as she took a long, slow survey from the classic cut of his hair to his polished oxfords.
Unhurriedly, she retraced her path until her gaze collided with his once more.
“Have I misjudged what I see?” She glanced pointedly at his crotch.
Heat ignited beneath his skin. The gauntlet was definitely on the ground. She wasn’t cracking without a battle. This was a woman accustomed to having her way with men.
A battle it would be. “Do you pick up men in this manner often?” Another step disappeared between them, this one his.
Matching her maneuver, his gaze traveled down those long legs, all the way to the devil-red polish glinting on her toenails and over the strappy stilettos in the same sizzling color.
Another blast of tension tightened below his belt, fueling the fire her words had kindled far too quickly.
“Often is relative, don’t you think?” She removed her dangly earrings and tossed them onto the closest table. “For some, there aren’t enough days in the week. For others, waiting is the best aphrodisiac of all.”
The muscle in his jaw tightened. You need sex, Carson. But not like this. He acquired the next step, decided to up the ante. Put her on the defensive. “So, this isn’t the first time you’ve lured a stranger to your hotel room.”
She abided the roundabout insult without a flinch. Instead of telling him to go to hell or slapping his face, she blatantly and deliberately assessed him a second time.
Another of the smiles that mesmerized him so easily glided across her sleek lips. “If I confess my sins, will you be afraid to play with me?”
Excitement shot through him. He dismissed it, refused to allow his baser instincts that kind of leverage twice in one day. He hadn’t run out of angles just yet.
Make it personal. “I assume you have a name.”
She moved closer, one more step then a second. “For tonight, why don’t we pretend we’re anyone but who we are?”
Temptation nudged him harder. Made him hesitate, but not for long. He gave his head a shake. “I’m afraid you’ve picked the wrong man.” He didn’t take risks outside the boundaries of a case; didn’t play these kinds of meaningless games. He was done.
“I see.” Impervious, she claimed the final step between them. A subtle whiff of her perfume teased his senses. Made him long to be closer still . . . close enough to taste her.
Stupid, Carson. Incredibly stupid.
He drew in a breath, wished he hadn’t. The fragrance that had tickled his senses now permeated his lungs, renewed his forbidden desire.
It was either get the hell out of there or risk passing the point of no return.
“I should go now.” He hesitated before following through. “Tell my friend that payback is hell.”
When he would have acted on his intent, she reached for his tie and dragged her fingers down its length. “You believe your friend had something to do with this?” Slowly, she inched her fingers upward again and worked loose the silk knot at his throat. “A birthday gift, maybe?”
Well, there was his answer. Luttrell would so regret this. “My friend has a predilection for skirting the fringes of ethics. Usually mine.”
Her palms skimmed his chest. Already tense muscles hardened. “You should relax. I’ll bet you don’t do that often.”
Before he could decide whether to counter her statement or simply walk out the door, she pulled away and crossed to the bar. She picked up the bottle of liquor waiting there. Bacardi. Memories bombarded him, set off an alarm. He hadn’t tasted rum in fifteen years. Hadn’t imbibed any alcohol.
Had to be a coincidence. She couldn’t know that about him. Even Luttrell didn’t know his onetime drink of choice.
“Do you prefer it straight or mixed?”
His mouth parched as if fifteen years had not elapsed since his last topple into that particular temptation.
“Thank you. I’ll pass.” He told himself to go.
To leave now as he’d planned. “You have your key,” he explained for her benefit as well as his own.
“That’s why I came.” Even as he said the words he understood he was lying to himself.
It had been way too long since he’d had sex.
His gaze roved her slender curves as she filled the glass despite his veto.
He started to remind her that he wasn’t staying, but then she lifted the drink and swallowed deeply.
Watching her do so inexplicably rendered him mute.
The delicate muscles of her throat worked, welcoming the warming liquid.
She made an appreciative sound as she moved in his direction and offered him the glass.
“One drink. No strings. If you still want to go . . . I won’t try and persuade you to stay. ”
The glass settled against his palm. Her fingers closed around his. Electricity crackled where their skin touched.
“One drink.” The flavor of rum was on his tongue before he fully realized he had made the decision to taste it, much less said the words.
He didn’t drink.
Never allowed his guard to fail this way.
And still he could not resist. She intrigued him on every level. Made him want her with a desperation he hadn’t felt in years.
No one should be alone on a night like this. Maybe she was right. He emptied the glass. Felt the burn. His tongue slid across his bottom lip to taste the last drop.
She was watching. “One dance?” She took the glass from his hand and pulled him toward the center of the room, her actions slow and teasing like the music. “Just one.”
Just one.
He watched her place the empty glass on the bar, walk back over to him.
Felt her palms glide up his chest and her fingers lace behind his neck.
She started to sway and, again, he didn’t resist. His body fell into rhythm with hers.
She leaned in. His arms instinctively went around her waist, pulled her closer.
He thought of all the reasons he should have left already . . .
. . . and then he closed his eyes and stopped thinking at all.
Her forehead rested against his chin, and he relished the feel of her skin. The smell of her hair.
She pressed her body against him more fully and the battle of wills was over.
Whether it was his prolonged abstinence or the one drink or both, he needed . . . this.
He drew back, pushed the dress off her shoulders, exposing her bare breasts. He wanted to touch her. He needed to have sex. Here. Now. With her. There was no more denying it.
Her fingers tangled with his buttons, swiftly freeing each one. Together they dragged off his tie . . . his jacket and shirt. She ushered her dress past her hips, allowing it to float to the carpet.
In one sweep she was in his arms, then on the bed.
His shoes and socks, his trousers, and then his boxers landed on the floor.
He ripped the delicate panties from her hips and would have driven straight into her but the last brain cell still functioning with any semblance of intelligence sent a warning.
Condom.
As if she had read his mind, she reached beneath the pillow and withdrew a shiny package. She ripped it open and sheathed him in one smooth motion.
He thrust inside her without a moment’s foreplay or the slightest inkling of finesse. She wrapped herself around him and met each flex of his hips. The heels of her stilettos scraped his thighs, urged him on.
And then she kissed him. Not slow. Not soft. She kissed the way she fucked: hard, furious, and without pretension. Her fingers rammed into his hair and pulled him deeper into the kiss. “More,” she murmured against his lips, undulating her hips provocatively.
He gave it to her.
At some point he told himself this was crazy . . . over the top. But that didn’t stop him . . . didn’t even slow him down. The single viable idea remaining in his head was to have all of her.