Читать книгу Kiss & Tell - Alison Kent - Страница 13

CALEB COULDN’T BELIEVE his good fortune. First, that the bartender had told him to take his time with the coffee. Second, that Candy Cane had so easily fallen prey to his charms.

Especially when he had so few.

If what he did have qualified as charming at all.

Not many people thought so.

As she’d gestured in the direction of her dressing room and turned for him to follow, he’d watched the subtle exchange that had passed between the redheaded siren and the bartender.

The man who’d served Caleb the coffee he’d so desperately needed hadn’t seemed insulted or injured that she’d invited him back for a drink. Neither had he gone into protective, big-brother, hurt-her-and-I’ll-kick-your-ass mode.

So far, so good.

Having witnessed the conversation the two had shared earlier, Caleb assumed the bartender and Candy were good friends. Not that he’d heard any of what they’d said, but he had noticed the casual nature of their exchange and the comfortable intimacy between them.

All that was to say…either the man behind the bar with the ski-bum look knew Candy could take care of herself, or knew Caleb was the one heading into trouble. Judging by the sway of her hips as she walked through the club and his body’s primal reaction, Caleb heading into trouble was true either way.

He told himself to look up, to look away, over her shoulders, above her head, down at the floor. But her hips had been in his lap at the same time her tongue had been in his mouth, and that was all he could think about. That, and wanting more.

Or so it was until he reminded himself of why he was here, why he’d wanted the coffee in the first place. The recognition he’d needed to be sober enough to place. Yes, he was getting out of the biz, but he couldn’t give up his curiosity any more than he could cut off a leg. If he figured her out and found her story worth telling, well…he’d cross the bridge of what to do when he got to it.

She led him through the bar, across the stage and to a door down the hallway behind the wings.

There was no name, no star, nothing to indicate where they were. It could just as easily have been a broom closet for the lack of signage. But she opened the door, and like a beast in rut, he followed her in.

“Like I said,” she reminded him as she flipped on the lights. “A mess.”

It didn’t look any worse than his place, he mused, walking inside as she shut the door behind him. The floor was covered with the same red carpeting as the rest of the club. The walls were painted off-white with a pink tinge—or else the semigloss was reflecting the floor.

A closet with a six-foot rod took up the wall opposite one with six feet worth of mirrors. The accordion doors were open, showing red tops and bottoms on and off hangers, dresses draped over the pole, other items of clothing puddled on the floor and covering dozens of shoes flung here and there.

He turned toward the mirror, and she pushed in behind him, closing the doors as if to hide her shame. He wondered if her house was in the same disarray, and how she could look so put together when she dressed in a danger zone.

“I promise, I’m much neater than this in the rest of my life. For some reason when I’m here, I tend to let down my hair—as it were,” she tacked on, nodding to a shelf of wigs he hadn’t yet noticed.

“You didn’t fool me for a minute,” he told her, reaching for the strawberry strands where they caressed her bare shoulder. He allowed his fingers to linger on her skin, her soft skin that in this light was obviously freckled, leaving them there, tempting himself. Testing himself.

She was warm, smooth, and he couldn’t help but think about the rest of her that was still covered, wondering how soft she’d be elsewhere, thinking, too, about her mouth and the touch of her tongue to his, wanting that again, wanting her taste, wanting another jolt of that unexpected heat.

It took her several seconds to move, and his gut tightened while he waited. He watched her face as it broadcast the push-pull conflict driving her, push winning out in the end and demanding distance and space between them—though pull sizzled in the air that had grown sharp with expectation.

She opened one of the lockerlike cabinets stacked next to the closet doors. “I have a bottle,” she said, showing him the Drambuie and the single glass tumbler she had. “But I only have one glass.”

He took it from her hand, took the bottle, too, uncapped it and poured. He drank, then offered the glass to her. “So we share.”

She took it and sipped without hesitation. He closed up the bottle and set it on the vanity next to a pair of narrow-framed eyeglasses. A contact-lens case and a bottle of solution sat nearby, as did a brush with several strands of short dark hair caught in the bristles.

Caleb smiled, and turned back to the mysterious faux-redhead, thinking how much he’d like to see her in nothing but her freckles and her real hair. He swallowed hard, fighting the rush of blood through his veins, and asked, “What do singles do around here for fun?”

“Leave?” she suggested, and laughed softly, looking into the tumbler and avoiding looking at him. “The only place to get a drink besides Club Crimson is Manny’s, but it’s more a local watering hole. There’s Fish and Cow Chips—”

“Seafood and steak?” he asked, cutting her off with a grimace at that mental image.

She held the glass close to her chest as she finally met his gaze. “Yes, it’s very poorly named. Though the food is amazing.”

“No theater with dinner?”

“Nope,” she said, handing him their shared drink. “And if you want a movie, well, you drive down the mountain into Golden, or you get a satellite dish and be happy that you’re only six months behind the pop-culture curve.”

He wondered what she’d think if she knew he swung the bell for that curve. He leaned back against the edge of the vanity, swirled the herb-flavored liqueur in the glass, enjoyed the waft of aroma. Enjoyed even more being in close quarters with this woman he very much wanted to figure out.

“What do you do when you’re not Candy?”

She gave him a teasing smile. “I’m always Candy.”

“Then what does Candy do when she’s not onstage?” he asked taking a step closer, feeling the crackle of electricity burning fiercely between them, a live-wire connection he swore he could reach out and touch.

This time she gave him a shake of her finger, a school-teacher scolding a pupil for his impertinence, with a wickedly sexy gleam in her eye. “Ah, that’s something I only share with friends and family.”

“Hmm. In a town this size, that must cover everyone.” And then because he needed to know…“Including the man in your life?” Or the men who once were.

She shook her head, sat on one end of the vanity bench, took the glass when he offered it and allowed his fingers to linger against hers. “No lovers, current or ex. Not for a very long time.”

“That’s a shame.” He joined her on the bench. The seat was only so long, and their thighs brushed. She stayed where she was. Even when he shifted to touch her hip, her arm, she didn’t move. “You’re a beautiful woman.”

At the base of her throat, her pulse jumped, but that was her only response. She sat still, the glass of honeyed Scotch liqueur held between both of her hands in her lap. The walking slit in her skirt had parted to reveal the length of her stocking-covered thigh. The deep V-neck in her top highlighted the inner swells of her breasts.

It was hard to keep his gaze on her face with all that bounty to feast on, but her face along with her voice would help him figure out if he knew her—though he had to admit he was quickly forgetting he’d ever had such a hunch. He was much more interested in exploring the rest of her, and doing so for very selfish reasons.

“You never did tell me why you were here,” she finally said. A hitch in her chest when she breathed in revealed the state of her composure.

He liked that she reacted to him, that he wasn’t the only one here caught up by anticipation and need. “I’m attending a wedding.”

She gave a nod, a smile. “Another celebrity off the market?”

“It’s a private gig, but, yeah. It’ll be a pretty big deal when it makes the news.” He raised a brow, raised the drink. “I’m sure you could snoop into what’s going on, if you really wanted to know. A perk of working here and all.”

That caused her chin to come up, a frown to crease her brow—a response he hadn’t expected, and one he filed away. “I don’t think so,” she said. “People come here because they don’t have to worry about being stalked or hounded by the media, or by the staff.”

He made a mental note not to reveal the hounding he had done, the stalking, definitely not the betrayal. Reaching for their shared glass, he set it on the floor beneath the bench, then shifted to better face her before cupping his hand to her cheek. “I’m sorry. Offending you is the last thing I’d ever want to do.”

“What’s the first?” she asked, her lashes drifting down in a soft sexy sweep before she raised her gaze in invitation.

The heat he’d been feeling grew to engulf him, and the surface of his skin fairly burned. “Are you sure you want to know?”

She nodded, the look in her eyes one of hunger, of craving, one that caused him to ache. When he leaned toward her, he wasn’t a journalist. He was only a man. A man who hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since melting into her kiss.

And so he kissed her again. This time he didn’t have to be still or discreet. He was able to close his eyes and give in to the desire that rolled through him the moment their lips made contact.

He continued to hold her face as he slanted his mouth over hers and coaxed her to open. She turned toward him, leaned into him, allowed him the access he wanted, and met him with her tongue.

The kiss was tentative, a gentle exploration. He didn’t want to rush her or push her or frighten her away. She didn’t want to give in too quickly or show him too much of her need. He felt it, though, in the tense way she held her jaw, in the tautness of her neck as she kept her head straight.

She’d admitted to having no lover. He had a feeling it had also been a while since she’d had something as simple as a kiss. Not that this kiss was any simpler than the one in the club, any less arousing or potent.

The difference was in being alone and able to complicate things as thoroughly as they wanted, with no one to interrupt, with nothing to keep the kiss from becoming more.

She pushed forward, exhaled tiny moans into his mouth, used her teeth to nip, her tongue to bathe the damage, her lips to play catch and release with his.

Then she shifted her position, turning her body toward him instead of the vanity, and looped her arms around his neck, raking the fingers of one hand up his nape and into his hair. Her hunger was a match lit to his.

The hand with which he’d been cupping her face moved to cup her slender neck. His other hand found its way to the slit in her dress, and to her thigh. He slipped his fingers between her legs, and she parted them in invitation, whimpering as she did.

He stroked down to her knee, up to the seam where the sequined fabric split, but no farther. As much as he wanted to go there, he needed a sign that she was ready to take things that far.

She gave it to him with a softly whispered, “Please,” and with a hand that guided his higher between her legs. Before he’d even cupped the mound of her sex, he felt her moisture and her heat.

He used the edge of his index finger to play her, pressing it against her, rubbing it back and forth over her clit. She jumped, shuddered, blew short, sweet panting breaths against the edge of his open mouth.

“Good?” he asked.

“So good,” she answered, the words more moaned than spoken. “Can you—”

“Make you come?”

“Yes. Oh, yes.” This time the words rolled up from the back of her throat, a growled order as much as a plea.

He smiled, covered her mouth, bruised her with his kiss until his erection strained against his fly. When he pulled away, she urged him back.

But first…“Your hose—”

“Get rid of them.”

He loved a woman who knew what she wanted. One brave enough not to let propriety get in the way. He found the seam between her legs, dug his fingers against it and tore the fabric free, finding a scrap of a thong covering her sex, and scooping it aside.

She was smooth and damp, and she gasped when he touched her. He moved his lips to the base of her neck and parted her folds with his finger. Her throat vibrated with the sounds she made as he toyed with her, sliding a finger inside her, flicking his thumb over her clit.

She tucked her chin to her chest, closing her eyes, gouging her fingers into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks, and rode his hand, pumping her hips where she sat, sliding on and off his finger.

He ran the flat of his tongue along her collarbone, kissed his way back to her throat, moved to the swell of her breast and pushed her dress aside. He found her nipple and sucked, penetrating her sex with a second finger, rolling the tip of her breast with his lips. She was close now.

He’d hit the right rhythm, found the right combination of pressure and motion, and he kept it up, stroking, rubbing, in and out and around. She tensed, grew wetter. Her breathing quickened, becoming labored and shallow and damp.

And then she cried out, tossing back her head as her orgasm consumed her. He watched the fierce sweep of emotions cross her face, felt her sex contract around him, found himself awash on an amazing high at being able to give this to her, share this with her. At pleasing her so completely.

She came down quickly, shaking, her hands sliding from his shoulders to his biceps, color rising to her cheeks as she dipped her head. “I can’t believe—”

“Believe.” He didn’t want her to feel self-conscious, or awkward at what she’d allowed him to see. He wanted her to bask in the lingering sensation, not embarrassment.

“But you didn’t. It’s not right—”

He smiled, leaned forward to nuzzle the skin beneath her ear. “If you want to do something about that, I won’t say no.”