Best of Temptation Bundle Page 38
He licked parched lips. “Not at all? Ever?”
The leather jacket hit the floor. Harley kicked it away.
“Not until I say so.”
Facing him again, she stood, legs parted, so the pole fit into her cleavage. She reached both hands above her head, grasping the brass and swaying her hips—two counts right, three to the left. Slowly, she inched her hands downward, stroking the post sensually, leaving Grant to imagine how she’d touch him when the time came.
Leaning her head back, Harley surrendered to the music. The deliberate beat guided her hands as she released the pole and unzipped her pants. She dipped a finger into the crotch, teasingly, tantalizingly, showing Grant how she adored her body, how she wanted him to adore her body. Soon. Very soon.
Two quick tugs with her other hand and the Velcro seams released. The pants flew across the room. In only a leather bikini and ankle-high boots, Harley grasped the pole again, spinning and jumping at the same time until she swung around with practiced grace.
She landed crouched close to the floor. Bracing the pole against her back, she stood, languidly, again positioning the brass between her legs, rolling her hips forward and back, simulating sex, feigning rapture on her face.
Sweat trickled down Grant’s forehead and collected at his collar, but the heat didn’t stop there. Every inch of him flamed with intense need. His breathing labored, he parted his lips, pulling in deep breaths, panting openly, and not caring. Without any prodding from him, she knew exactly what he craved. She plunged into the role of seductress with verve, invigorating herself with the power of her control, vitalizing him with the novelty of complete surrender.
She left the pole and stood not a half foot from where he sat. Starting at her neck, she smoothed her hands down the side of her body, rolling her hips in rhythmic circles. Thrusting forward, she bent her knees so her breasts bounced just inches from his lips.
She pulled at a snap on the top of the triangular bikini cup, revealing a sliver of skin on her right breast, then her left. Two more tugs, and the top would become nothing more than black straps surrounding pale, ample breasts.
Anticipation left him speechless.
“Enjoying the show?”
He managed to nod.
“You look hot.”
Stepping between his legs, she removed his tie and tugged his shirt from his pants, working the buttons until the material fell aside.
“I want you comfortable.”
She rubbed his shirt against her face and inhaled his scent before she tossed the garment aside.
“Then let me touch you.”
“Not yet.”
She undid his belt next, then the button and zipper of his pants. Her fingers momentarily brushed over his stiffness. He groaned.
She backed away. “Ever had a lap dance?”
“Ever done one?”
She grinned at his evasion, obviously confident the Grant Riordan she knew would never have the nerve to purchase something so forbidden in a public place.
“This’ll be my first.” With deft fingers, she removed the triangles of material covering her breasts. Her nipples, bathed in the red heated light, peaked high, announcing her arousal.
She turned around, braced her hands on her knees and crouched, balancing her backside a breath away from his lap.
“Marry me and it won’t be your last,” he promised.
She grinned wickedly over her shoulder, dipping to briefly allow contact between her bottom and his groin. “Intend to hire me out?”
He gripped the side of the chair tighter. “Not on your life. I’ll keep you as my own private dancer.”
Facing him, she climbed over his lap, not sitting and still moving to the music. Her eyes now misted with something deeper than seduction—something more akin to fearful hope.
“You really want to marry me?”
He saw the last vestiges of uncertainty in her eyes, and vowed to devote himself to proving how unwarranted her apprehension was. In all his life, he’d never met a woman who embodied the exact combination of intelligence, sensuality and daring he craved. He was helpless to resist her, powerless to let her go. He grasped her waist, pulling her full against him, showing her how much he needed her at that moment while he told her how he needed her for the rest of his life.
“Right now, I want to make love to you. But tomorrow I want to marry you. This last month’s been hell. It’s been my old life. You’re the key to my new life. I love you, Harley. Be my wife. Be my lover and my confidant. My partner.”
“Your private dancer?”
Just weeks ago, the idea that she removed her clothes for a man’s pleasure terrified her—even when the man was Grant. But since she’d left his house, she’d learned how deeply he’d imbued himself into her soul. How the mere thought of him set her mind racing with delicious decadence and her heart with rapid need. She’d fully recovered her memory, but still couldn’t believe a time existed when Grant wasn’t a crucial part of her. Seducing Grant back into her life had been her way to promise she’d never let his life get boring or predictable ever again.
Amid her fears that he’d sap her independence, she’d missed how his presence fortified her, how his desire emboldened her. Even beyond the bedroom, their love gave her an equilibrium she’d never known. And once she dropped all pretense of humility, she realized she provided the same symmetry to him.
They were opposite sides of a scale. Their love would keep them in perfect balance.
He grinned as he leaned forward and took a nipple between his lips. “Yeah, my private dancer.”
She moaned, then cooed when he suckled gently. “On one condition.”
Looking up from where he now laved between her breasts, Grant’s eyes promised her the world. “Name your price.”
She divested him of his pants, then unsnapped the side of her bikini bottoms and slid the material away.
Naked and unbound, Grant grasped her hips, posing her directly over him. His eyes reflected such intense love, she feared speaking and breaking the spell.
But she had to ask this. She had to know that she’d never lose the man fate gave her and the ecstasy his loving promised.
“Don’t ever let me forget how much I love you.”
Grant slipped his hand between her legs. In a split second, a warm, slick heat pooled and bubbled. He eased her down, entering her with such exquisite laziness, she knew she’d climax before the first thrust.
“Harley, honey, I’m going to love you so thoroughly, tonight, tomorrow, and every day after, you’ll forget everything but me. Think you can handle that?”
She could only murmur her consent before the room began to spin.
Nobody Does it Better
by Julie Kenner
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
1
“YOU NEED A MAN.”
“Rachel!” Paris Sommers choked on her wine and scrunched lower into the booth. She would have preferred a quiet slide into oblivion, but since that wasn’t possible, poor posture would have to suffice.
“I’m serious,” Rachel continued. “All we need to do is find you an able-bodied male. You use him for one night. Bingo. Problem solved. Just pick one, already.”
Paris scanned the dimly lit Irish pub nestled in the heart of Manhattan. Thankfully, most of the patrons seeme
d uninterested, studying their pints instead. Some looked up, but then laconically turned away. Only a nearby waiter seemed even the slightest bit intrigued, and Paris caught his eye before he turned back to gathering dirty glasses from an adjacent table.
Pulling herself up, Paris leaned over the polished tabletop until she was nose to nose with Rachel. “Let’s lay off the men talk, okay?” She cast a meaningful glance toward the waiter. “People might misunderstand.”
“Afraid he’ll think you’re looking to get laid?”
“Stop it,” hissed Paris, knowing he must have overheard. Sure enough, his head tilted just a little so he could watch them. Despite the shadows, Paris swore she saw the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he moved away to wipe down another table.
The muted lighting prevented her from getting a good look at him, but what she could see, she liked. Strong features, a nice smile and just a hint of charisma. Well, that figured. A gorgeous guy looks her way and she’s having a ridiculous conversation about getting laid.
She frowned. Rachel Dean might have been her best friend since kindergarten, and her literary agent for the past six years, but she could still be a royal pain.
“Come on, Paris. Half your characters parade around in tiny bikinis on the arms of virile government agents. You’d think I could say ‘laid’ without you blushing.”
“That’s why they call it fiction.”
“Yet another reason you really do need a man.”
“Unlike some people, I have standards.”
Rachel pointed to herself and raised her eyebrows. “Moi? I have standards. Male. That’s a standard.”
Paris rolled her eyes. Rachel might not be a saint, but she was still a far cry from the sophisticated, experienced vixen she tried so hard to appear to be. “Maybe so, but the mere existence of a Y-chromosome doesn’t do it for me.” She wanted more. A lot more.
“No. You want Alexander. What would you do if he walked through that door? You’d jump him and have your wicked way with him right in front of us law-abiding bar patrons.”
Paris felt the telltale warmth of a blush creep up the back of her neck. Rachel knew her far too well.
“Au contraire, my friend,” she said, trying to cover. “I’m much too refined.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes and smiled sweetly. “The floor’s way too hard.”
Rachel downed the last of her beer. “Got news for you, kiddo. It ain’t gonna happen. And meantime, your diaphragm’s collecting cobwebs.”
“Of course it’s not happening, because I am not waiting for Alexander,” Paris insisted, adding a little extra emphasis, more for herself than for Rachel. Hadn’t she told herself over and over to let go of the fantasy that someone as delicious as Alexander would suddenly sweep her off her feet?
Trouble was, Alexander was a rare breed, a hard man to give up. Sophisticated, yet witty. Cold as steel to his enemies. Hot as molten lava with his lover. Fiercely loyal, utterly sexy. A man with the poise of a prince and the coolness of an assassin, Alexander could melt a woman’s heart with a well-placed look.
Paris closed her eyes and sighed. No matter how much she wanted him next to her, Alexander was not going to miraculously appear. Not in person. Not in the flesh.
Hadn’t she dated enough men to know that?
She took another sip of wine, then studied the deep red liquid. It was just as well, really. She knew exactly what she wanted out of life, had it all mapped out, in fact. Alexander was too suave, too cool, too dangerous to be part of the respectable suburban life she’d get around to eventually.
She twirled the stem of her wineglass between her fingers. True, there was a part of her—a tiny but persistent part—that prodded her to cut loose, to take a walk on the wild side. To get out there and squeeze the Charmin at least once.
She’d struggled hard to keep that part under control, and she didn’t intend to blow it. A man like Alexander would throw a real kink into her carefully thought out plans. So it was for the best that he’d never appeared on her doorstep.
At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.
Rachel leaned back in the booth and snorted. “Well, if you’re not waiting for an Alexander to sweep you off your feet, then what the devil are you waiting for?”
“Nothing. I date. I date nice men, the right kind of men.” Men who did absolutely nothing for her. No heart pounding. No toes curling. No…anything.
“The kind Daddy would approve of? Let me give you a clue, my friend. You date boring men. And you don’t even do that very often. Actually, considering the men I’ve seen you go out with, it’s just as well your diaphragm’s a little dusty.”
She glared at Rachel. “For your information, I don’t even own one.”
“Maybe you should. You need a little adventure in your life.”
Paris wasn’t about to confess that she’d been thinking almost that very thing. “I have adventure. I’m practically drowning in adventure.” What she really wanted was passion. Just one taste of the stomach-churning, knees-wobbling, lose-all-control kind of passion she imagined with Alexander. One moment of reality to fuel her imagination and tide her over for the rest of her life.
“You’ve got adventure, sure. But it’s in your head. I’m talking reality.”
“You’re talking nonsense,” Paris said, more harshly than she intended. “Could we get back on track? I didn’t force myself onto a plane, leave my goldfish with a neighbor, and come all the way from Texas for Introduction to Dating 101.” She took the last gulp of wine and leaned back, then saw the cute waiter out of the corner of her eye, staring right at her. And soaking up every word.
Great. Just great. When his smirk transformed into a full-blown smile, the heat in her cheeks rose in proportion to his expanding grin. Her stomach lurched as mortification swept over her. Half of her wanted to ask him out just to show Rachel up. Her more practical half wanted to scold him for eavesdropping on a rather embarrassing conversation.
She chose a middle ground. “Could you bring us some water?”
“Sure thing.” His deep voice held just enough of a New York accent to add flair without stealing attention from the rest of him. As he leaned over to clear their empty glasses, Paris inhaled his cinnamon-musk scent, a nice contrast to the smell of beer and tobacco that wafted through the pub. The dark stubble on his face contrasted with honey-colored waves to give him a wild, bohemian quality. His hair was the kind a woman’s fingers, and her kisses, could get lost in.
His profile danced on the edge of her memory, just inches out of reach. Why did he seem so familiar? She knew she’d never seen him before, yet his appearance called to her. His features were angular, with high cheekbones and a well-defined jawline. The tip of his nose bent just a little, as if broken in a reckless youth.
He moved away, weaving his way through the tables.
Then it hit her—that chiseled face, the sensual mouth, his bad-boy-playing-at-respectable air. Could it really be?
“Waiter!” she called, desperate for another look. When he turned and stepped into the light, Paris quelled a gasp. She’d been right. In her mind, she could picture every line, every angle, every contour of Alexander’s face. Except for the dark blond hair, this waiter could be Alexander’s twin.
“Miss?”
With a start, she realized she’d been staring, her mouth hanging open like an idiot. At least she’d refrained from drooling.
She grappled for something to say, then noticed the empty bowl that had earlier held cashews. “Um…could we also get something to nibble on?”
Her cute waiter nodded. “No problem.”
DEVIN O’MALLEY TRIED to get a grip on himself. He rarely noticed women. For years he’d been too immersed in his business to bother. Of course, that didn’t stop the women from noticing him, and if they made the first move, Devin had no qualms about reciprocating. He’d entertained plenty like the brunette named Rachel, in and out of his bed, usually converting their casual talk about sex
into low-pitched moans and desperate pleas once the lights went out.
Yet he’d never once experienced such a tug of pleasure just from watching a woman like the petite blonde with the deep brown eyes. And it had been ages since he’d puzzled over how to ask a perfect stranger out on a date.
But he was wondering about how to ask this one.
Paris. The name seemed to fit, even though she lacked the exotic appearance he’d expect to accompany that name. She wasn’t a classic beauty. Each of her features, standing alone, boasted some flaw. Brown doe-eyes spaced a little too far apart, untamed eyebrows a shade darker than her neatly pinned golden curls, a nose that was just a little crooked, a too-small mouth that didn’t do justice to the perfectly shaped, full lips.
Empirically, her features were flawed. As a whole, her face was striking. It had certainly struck Devin. She was every fantasy he’d ever had rolled into one woman. And then some.
Her friend said she needed a man. Well, he intended to apply for the job.
“Pass me some nuts, would you, Jerry?” Devin asked as he slipped behind the mahogany and brass bar.
“We’re out. Want me to run to the back?”
“I’ll do it,” he said, actually grateful no one had bothered to stock the bar. He needed a few minutes to get his head in order. To plan his attack.
A large room with high ceilings and bare walls, the stockroom was a hodgepodge of electronic gadgetry and miscellaneous supplies. Devin found the cashews under a stack of misprinted menus and grabbed a box.
“Larry? Federal prosecutor Larry? He doesn’t have any magnetism. No one will buy that he’s Alexander.” Devin almost dropped his bundle. That smooth voice belonged to her.
“Well, I’ll be,” he mumbled. He’d forgotten that the room shared a thin wall with booth twelve.