CHAPTER 1 #3
“Obviously, you do because Sylvia and I tried to book a room here and were told that occupancy was at 100 percent, and they had nothing available until Monday.”
“I can help with that,” he offered.
“That’s OK, we’re comfortable at the Bellagio.”
The bartender arrived with two flutes and a black Dom Pérignon bottle with purple lettering.
“Shall I open it, sir?”
A smile played about Ian’s lips. “Thanks, Jason. I’ve got it.”
He took the bottle, tore off the purple foil, and untwisted the loop to undo the wire cage. Gripping below the neck, he propped the bottle against his hip, twisting it while holding the cork with his right hand.
She couldn’t take her eyes off those hands. Beautiful, strong hands that had obviously never seen manual labor but were masculine and surely capable of any task. Her mind flashed an image of those hands on her, and a nearly violent thrill coursed through Claire.
He grasped the bulbous cork firmly as he steadily worked it out. Pressing his thumb up from beneath the lip, he gave the bottle just a slight shake, and the cork slid out smoothly. It popped up between the circle of his thumb and index finger, and a bit of champagne gurgled out onto his hand.
Claire quickly grabbed a paper napkin off the bar and handed it to him, but her mind conjured visions of sucking that champagne off his thumb.
Was it the impossibly sexy view of him uncorking that bottle? No, it was more than that. It was the inexorable pull she felt from him, something she’d read about but only thought happened in erotic novels.
“OK, let’s do this.” He poured champagne into two flutes and handed her one.
Claire accepted it with a smile and a little shake of her head. “I just told you I don’t drink much.”
He picked up his own flute and raised it to admire the blush color of the bubbly liquid. “You also told me you drink champagne on special occasions.”
God, he had such beautiful lips. “What’s the occasion?”
“The night we met.” He said it in a low voice that made her shudder and raised goose bumps from her scalp all the way down her arms. “Cheers!”
She clinked her glass to his. “Cheers.” She took a sip, watching him do the same.
For a few moments, they both sipped, and Ian smiled at her as if they shared a secret no one else knew.
What was happening here?
She wanted him, yes, undeniably, but the connection seemed more than just animal lust. Normally, she would consider his moves a very clever way to get into her pants.
But the way he said what he said, the way he looked at her, as if he could see straight into her soul and wanted to get lost in her, the intensity of his demeanor, all made her sense that this was different.
Her mind wanted to explore it, and her body screamed for the go-ahead to touch every inch of him.
She wanted to know what it was like to be held, enveloped, kissed by him.
And, yes, she shocked herself with the realization that she wanted to know what he looked like naked and what he was like in bed.
This wasn’t her. And yet, this man … she wanted to wrap herself around him like a liana, take everything he had to give, and it didn’t feel weird or uncomfortable.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the two men rise and head out with Sylvia strolling between them, her hips shifting provocatively, one arm around each man’s waist. No sign of the other couples.
Claire’s brow furrowed. Sylvia usually texted to tell Claire she was leaving and where she was headed.
Ian watched Sylvia’s hand disappear under Devon’s jacket and grinned. “Trust me, I know them both. She’ll be safe and well taken care of.” He drew his tongue over his bottom lip, making Claire’s stomach plummet. “Dollar for your thoughts, Penny.”
“Penny?”
“That hair of yours. It’s like a newly minted penny.” He reached to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing just below her earlobe. “No one has ever called you that?”
She shook her head. “I’ve been called many things but never that. And, dollar?’’
“Inflation. Plus, your thoughts are worth much more than one cent. I’m curious: what have you been called?”
Claire grimaced. “Ginger, of course. Then there’s Rusty, Carrot Top, and my personal favorite, Ranga.”
His brows lifted. “Ranga?”
“Short for orangutan.”
“Damn.” He frowned. “Brutal.”
“Yeah. Especially if your last name is Burns.”
“Claire Burns.”
“Uh-huh. Insert the fire pun of your choice.”
He shook his head. “That must have been tough to handle as a kid.”
She shrugged. “It was, but so was I. Redhead prejudice is real. School was like a crucible. I got used to the names. And the jokes.”
How is a brick different from a Ginger? A brick can get laid.
Well, Tommy Grossman from eighth grade, you were dead wrong.
Because judging by all of Ian’s signals, this was a sure thing, if she wanted it.
Ian leaned close, so close that she could smell him. Intriguing that he wore no cologne, at least none she could detect. She sensed the unique, clean fragrance of his soap, and she inhaled deeply, filling her senses with it.
“Redheads,” he murmured in her ear, “have always been my kryptonite. Can you handle that power over me?”
And in that moment, something reckless overtook her. She’d let this go where it was meant to go. For once, she’d throw caution to the wind and let instinct guide her. And right now, every basic instinct told her to go up to his room.
She wanted him.
He wanted her.
Here was her chance to have a one-night stand.
She fired off a text to Sylvia, then caught his gaze and held it. “I can. The question is, can you handle me?”
His blue eyes smoldered. He stood and grabbed the champagne bottle by the neck. “I guess we’ll find out upstairs, won’t we?”
He took her hand. “Let’s go.”