Читать книгу Moonstruck - Julie Kenner - Страница 9

“NOT THAT I’M UNHAPPY with the outcome, but what if I’d really had plans?” They were sitting at the bar, and Ty had his hand on her knee, his fingers just barely under the hem of her skirt. Ostensibly casual, but the effect was anything but, and Claire was having a hard time concentrating, much less breathing.

“Did you have plans?”

“Well, I was supposed to go to the hospital and donate a kidney, but I guess I won’t be doing that anymore.”

He leaned closer, then pressed his hand flat against her lower belly. “Anyone would be lucky to get your kidney.” His words were teasing, but she didn’t smile. How could she when she could barely think. Her whole body was tense. His touch, his smell, even the soft sound of his breath was absolutely driving her crazy, and it was taking every ounce of effort not to close her hand over his on her belly and move it up to her breast, then slide his hand on her thigh up, up to where she really wanted to feel it.

Oh, dear Lord, she wanted to feel it. Him. His hands all over her. And right then, the biggest question on her mind was why, why, why were they still sitting in that bar?

He lifted his hand from her stomach, and she managed to breathe again. He signaled for the bartender to bring them another round, then he took her hand in his. “I thought I was doing you a favor. Did I assume wrong?”

She licked her lips. “I was that obvious?”

“I’ve learned to watch people. I spend a lot of time negotiating. People don’t usually say what they’re thinking.”

“What was I thinking?” She wondered if he could tell that she’d been fantasizing about a day with him and, yes, she wondered if he wanted that, too.

“You were thinking the party sounded like an opportunity.”

“It is.” She sounded defensive, and she tried to tone it back. “I mean, I’ve been working for a judge for a while now. Great experience, great credentials, but I need to make my own contacts. I’m moving into private practice this summer.”

“No need to justify yourself to me. I’m a man who survived and thrived chasing opportunities.”

She tried to remember what she’d heard about him. She’d seen his name before when she turned on various celebrity gossip shows, and those types of programs seemed to be all over the television lately. And every once in a while she saw a reference on a blog. She didn’t tend to follow that kind of stuff, so the fact that she’d even once bounced up against his name suggested that he really was tabloid fodder, and if Joe was chasing after him, then Ty’s clubs must be some of the hottest around.

“Well, I appreciate it. It was you they really want to come, not me.” She frowned. “Frankly, I’m surprised Joe didn’t make more of an effort to keep me from coming.” She frowned, wondering if she should say something to Bonita when she saw her the next day, then decided it depended on whether Joe had already started dating Bonita when he’d made his pass at her. She’d have to find out.

“You’re looking pensive,” he said, picking up the scotch that the bartender had set in front of him and taking a sip. “Want to share?”

“No,” she said with a laugh. “I really don’t, and yet here I am running my mouth off with you.”

He dragged the tip of his finger along the edge of his glass, making it wet with condensation. Then he drew his fingertip slowly over her lips. “I happen to like your mouth,” he said in a tone that really should only be used in bed while naked.

She closed her eyes, soaking up the sound of his voice, then drew his finger in, tasting him, a hint of scotch, a dash of musk and one-hundred percent male.

She heard a little moan and realized it was coming from her.

She opened her eyes and saw that he was smiling at her, the heat in his eyes unmistakeable. To her surprise, she didn’t feel embarrassed. Instead, she felt sexy. Strong. “I think you’re making me a little crazy.”

“Maybe it’s the champagne,” he said.

She shook her head. “The champagne may account for some of the courage, but it’s the man who’s making me—”

“Yes?”

Wet. “Itchy.”

“Maybe I can help you scratch the itch.”

Her breath hitched in her throat. “I really wish you would.”

His smile was practically edible, and as he leaned in, she knew she wanted to taste it. Wanted to consume it, and when his lips brushed hers, she slid hungrily into the kiss, lips only at first, then leaning closer, her arm hooking around his neck as she lost herself in the wonder that was this man. This heat.

The rough sound of a clearing throat caught their attention, and Ty pulled away, breaking the kiss slowly and then, Claire was glad to see, looking at their interloper with an expression that suggested the interruption better be worth it.

The culprit was a girl, probably in her early twenties, wearing a tight Decadent T-shirt, and from the way she was grinning, she felt not the slightest bit of remorse for interrupting. As if Claire was just another girl, and this was just another night with clubster Ty Coleman.

Well, that’s probably true. Is that a problem?

He leaned in and kissed her hard enough to make her melt, then met and held her eyes, his hot enough to melt steel.

Nope, she thought. No problem at all.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sliding off the stool, his hand sliding along her thigh as he moved, and sending a shiver down her spine and shooting a promise between her legs. “I need to go run over a few closing details with Fred. Wait for me?”

She nodded, feeling a little dizzy, a lot girlie, and remarkably like she had the night that Tommy Blake—her teenage crush—had kissed her under the bleachers for the very first time.

Lost in her thoughts, she pulled a cherry out of one of the bar dishes and started to suck on it, her gaze sweeping casually over the room. She saw Joe and Bonita heading for the door, and quickly turned away, not wanting to meet their eyes. When she did, she found Alyssa, hidden with Chris in a throng that was moving for the far door. Alyssa whispered something to Chris, who shot Claire a friendly wave as Alyssa headed in her direction.

“I was going to fire off a text message,” Alyssa said, “but since you’re alone now…” She trailed off, then bit her lower lip. “Are you alone now?”

“Only temporarily,” Claire said, feeling slightly giddy.

“He’s gorgeous,” Alyssa said, taking Ty’s seat. “See? What did I tell you about sticking around? What’s he like? What’s his name?”

“He’s great,” Claire said. “So far, anyway. And his name’s Ty.” She paused a bit, to see if Alyssa would react. “Ty Coleman.”

“Great name,” her friend said, and Claire wasn’t sure if she should be impressed with herself for having more pop culture knowledge than Alyssa, or ashamed.

“Does he work here?” She nodded to something over Claire’s shoulder, and when she turned, she saw Ty talking with the tall man who’d counted down to the New Year. He looked over while he was speaking, caught her eye and smiled.

“Bang and pop,” Alyssa said.

“What?”

“The way you two are looking at each other. It’s not just lust. It’s a connection.”

Claire laughed, brushing aside her friend’s words. “You only want me to be a couple now that you are. I just met the man.”

Alyssa shrugged. “Believe what you want,” she said in a voice that suggested she knew what she was talking about and Claire was hopelessly ignorant. “But you definitely owe me for convincing you to stay. I was coming over to tell you that you better not be planning on driving tonight, but since it looks like you’ve got an escort home, I’m not going to worry about it. But,” she added, as she leaned in to give Claire a hug, “don’t you dare drive.”

“I’ll consider it a stellar excuse to go home with the man. If he wants me to,” she added, the possibility that he wouldn’t disturbing her more than it probably should.

“Trust me,” Alyssa said, with a decidedly mischievous grin, “I’m certain he does.” She wiggled her fingers and backed away before Claire could get another word out, and it was only when she felt the soft press of Ty’s hand on her shoulder that she realized why Alyssa had departed so abruptly.

“Sorry about that. Technically, I’m on the clock.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I—”

“No, no,” he said, taking her hand before she could do something stupid like hop off the stool and—what? Because she wasn’t leaving. Not without this man. Not if she could help it. “One of the benefits of being the man in charge—I get to play by my own rules. But one of my rules is to work when work needs to be done.”

“And what work needed to be done at twelve-thirty on New Year’s Day?”

“More than you might think,” he said, sliding back on the bar stool and leaning back, looking for all the world as if he owned the place. Actually, maybe he did own the place. “For one thing, people drink more tonight.”

“So they do,” she said, lifting her glass. She rarely drank champagne—primarily because it went to her head and made her sleep like the dead—but she’d been indulging wildly this evening. And now she was enjoying the effects—and the courage—that came with the nice little buzz she had going on.

“Exactly,” he said, with a chuckle. “So we have to make sure that we’ve made arrangements with local taxi services, shuttles, whatever it takes. I’ve even been known to put people up at a hotel if I was afraid they’d get into their car. It’s an expense, but it’s worth it, and it’s paid off in goodwill, particularly among the college crowd.

“And, then, of course, there’s the problem of the till,” he continued. “Not that an increased cash drawer is a problem, but I don’t want the manager going alone to make the night deposit. Then you have the logistical issues of how to coordinate with your neighbors tomorrow morning, because inevitably someone has knocked over a corporate sign or left cigarette butts on the sidewalk. We’re located in a mixed-use area, so the club is next to restaurants and retail, and they’ll both be open tomorrow morning and wanting their grounds to be pristine. And then you have to deal with—”

He cut himself off with a quick shake of his head. “I’m getting a bit carried away.”

“A little. Maybe. But it’s interesting. I had no idea so much went into closing a club for the night. To be honest, my experience with the nightclub environment was more or less limited to a night at the symphony with my parents. At least until college, but even then I tended to—”

“Study more than you went out?” he said.

“That obvious?”

“I’m just familiar with the breed.”

“I take it you weren’t a studier?”

“I made a college career out of not studying,” he said, “and I mastered it so well that I got my degree in abject unstudiousness at nineteen and set out into the world to make my fortune.”

“And how did you end up in our little corner of the world?”

“Full circle, it looks like. At least temporarily.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“I was born here. Went to SMU. Learned how to dance the two-step.” He bent down and tugged up his jeans, then tapped his boots. “Can’t you tell,” he added, adding an affectation of a Texas twang to his voice as he spoke.

“Now that you mention it. But okay, why are you back?”

“Long story,” he said. “Bottom line is I’m back for two more months, and although I was dreading the fact that I had sixty full days ahead of me, now I’m thinking that my incarceration is looking much more tolerable. Not time served, but I’ve gotten a few perks.”

“Conjugal visits?” she quipped, the words out before she even realized what she was saying. “Oh…I…”

“Don’t you dare,” he said, that ribbon of heat she’d felt earlier flowing back into his voice. “Don’t you dare take that back.” He took a cherry out and passed it to her, dangling it so that it grazed her lower lip. She opened her mouth to take it, and he pulled it just out of reach. She laughed, then leaned forward, her hand going out to steady her, and finding purchase on his stool, right between his legs.

She caught the cherry and drew it in, closing her eyes as she suckled it. He shifted, and she felt the warmth of his inner thighs at her fingertips, then opened her eyes to see that her hand was right there—right next to the bulge in his jeans. So close that all she had to do was shift her fingertips to touch him, or move her hand to cup him. She imagined what would happen if he touched her that way—if his hand dipped down and cupped her, finding her wet, sliding a finger inside, closing his mouth over hers as he made her come.

Oh, dear.

It was in her head now. This need to touch him. To stroke him. To make him as absolutely crazy as his mere proximity was making her, and without thinking, she shifted her hand only slightly, then stroked him through his jeans. She felt him twitch under her touch, saw the way his body stiffened, and heard the slow, rough intake of his breath. She leaned in closer, feeling sexy and powerful, then lifted her head to face him. “Kiss me,” she demanded, then lost herself in the sweet pleasure of an obedient man who did exactly, positively, totally, what she asked.

As his mouth drew her in, making her head spin and her body tingle, his hand stroked her back, bare from the halter-style dress she wore. His touch was intimate, possessive, and Claire’s mind was fuzzy with lust. In most fairy tales, the girl turned back into herself at the stroke of midnight. Claire’s personal fairy godmother, however, apparently approached her job from an inverted perspective. Because on the stroke of midnight, Claire had transformed from being Dateless Claire, to being Claire-with-the-gorgeous-guy.

And not just any gorgeous guy, but a guy who seriously knew how to kiss. And how to make her laugh. True, the champagne was probably adding to the fizzy, floaty mood, but the real reason was Ty. The way he talked. The way he laughed.

And, oh, yes, the way he kissed. Like right now. Like he couldn’t get enough. Like he wanted to wrap her up and take her home and trail kisses down to the kinds of places that didn’t get kissed on bar stools.

Just the thought made her squirm, trying to find a position where the heat building between her thighs didn’t make her crazy. That, however, was impossible. Might as well admit it—she was tipsy, turned on and totally hot for the guy. And if she didn’t get him into a bed soon—if she didn’t touch him all over the way her fingers were itching to touch him, and if she didn’t feel him deep inside her making her absolutely wild—she had a feeling she would go crazy.

She was already half crazy as it was, and they’d done nothing but kiss.

He started to pull away, and she whimpered a protest, catching his lower lip with her teeth and softly tugging. The grin that spread to his eyes was slow and full of male pride and Claire, in full shameless hussy mode, didn’t care at all, because right then she was enjoying him too much, and if he wanted to feel self-satisfied about the fact that he had totally turned her on…well, she could live with that.

“Can you leave?” she murmured, praying the answer was yes. “Or do you have work to do?”

“To hell with work,” he said, sliding off the bar stool and coming to stand in front of her. An absurd wave of gratefulness swept through her, although she didn’t believe him for one second. She’d heard the passion in his voice. If there was work to be done, he wouldn’t abandon it. But thank God there wasn’t and he was free to go.

She slid her arms around his waist, pulling him even closer to her, certain if they didn’t leave soon she would spontaneously combust from the heat building inside her. “Then let’s get out of here.”

She slid off the bar—and the room started spinning. He hooked his arm around her waist, and she looked up at him with a combination of gratefulness and sheepishness. “Sorry. Champagne does this thing to me.”

“Good thing you’re with a man who makes it a point to get all the customers home safe.” He brushed a featherlight kiss across her ear, making her shiver. “I promise, I’ll see to it personally.”

She drew in a breath, thinking about Ty in her house. In her bed. “My house is a mess,” she said softly. “It’s the maid’s year off.”

“Maybe I should just kiss you good-night at the door, then.”

She heard the tease in his voice and rose to the challenge. Reaching up, she hooked her arm around his neck, then pulled his head down to hers. With her other hand, she cupped his rear, easing him toward her until their bodies meshed and she could feel the hard length of him pressed against her, straining beneath the tight denim of his jeans. A wave of feminine power surged through her, and she lifted herself up on her toes, letting her body press up hard against his, and positioning her lips so that they just brushed his ear.

“Don’t you dare,” she whispered. “I want you in my bed, Ty. And the sooner, the better.”