Читать книгу Mr One-Night Stand - Rachael Stewart - Страница 10

IF HE HAD to watch her pop another olive in her mouth, her eyes alive with wicked suggestion... He circled the rim of his glass with his index finger, the move rhythmically in line with the heat coiling through him.

He really should’ve left when he’d got the bail-out text from Andrews. Instead he’d sent a brief acknowledgement wrapped up in a warning.

Be at the solicitor’s nine a.m. prompt for contract exchange or else.

And then he’d settled back.

He really should’ve been more annoyed too, but it was fascinating what the sight of a blazing-eyed redhead enjoying her fill at the bar could do. And he wasn’t just referring to the olives—there were the bar snacks too. Whatever they were, they had her licking her lips and her fingers with such teasing that between that and the olive-sucking his lower body couldn’t get a let-up.

And, Christ, those eyes—they pierced him from across the room. The warm lighting of the bar glinted off their depraved depths as they came back to him again and again, demanding his attention, drawing him in, giving him hope that she wasn’t waiting for someone else to appear.

She was chatting to the barman now, her perfectly poised body leaning in as they exchanged words, their easy flow of conversation suggesting she was probably a regular. The guy nodded to her and moved away, freeing her once more, and he sensed her attention returning to him. His breath halting, his hand paused over his glass. And then her mobile lit up and her eyes dropped to it. She gave a flicker of annoyance and then a smile. She tapped at it and placed it back on the bar.

Now her eyes came to him and, fuck, were they calling.

His gut clenched, his jaw tightened and the room disappeared. Something had changed.

‘For you, sir.’

Not now. Grudgingly, he looked to the voice and found the blonde waitress hovering, a tray with a lone drink resting upon her palm.

‘J&B.’ She took hold of the glass and bent to place it on the table. ‘From the lady at the bar.’

His gaze dropped to the glass and he smiled.

Hell, Andrews, you’ve actually done me a favour.

* * *

From her elevated vantage point upon the bar stool she watched him straighten and plant his feet, the move sending her heart into her throat.

Oh, yes, come for me...

He lifted his glass off the table and started towards her, his tall, imposing frame filling her vision, his eyes lighting up every nerve-ending in their path as they raked appreciatively over her.

She turned on her stool to face him, sipping at her drink as she waited until he was within earshot, and then she smiled. ‘It’s lovely of you to join me.’

He tilted his glass. ‘I wanted to thank you for the drink.’

Wow, that voice. She drew a breath as her body flared. It was deep, husky, rough...the perfect mix for a body that exuded power. And that accent—she couldn’t place it, but it was there, teasing her.

‘And I wanted to thank you for improving my outlook this evening.’

He rewarded her with that easy grin, his eyes sparking and pulling her in. They were the colour of chocolate, the dark and rich kind, and they were on fire, burning into her as he said, ‘You and me both.’

‘Is that so?’

‘You know so.’

‘I know no such thing.’

He gave a small chuckle and reached past her, placing his glass on the bar. She twisted into his arm on impulse, felt his scent invading her, the heady masculine cologne sending lust slamming into her core.

‘Perhaps I can convince you over another drink?’ He leant back against the bar-edge. ‘What can I get you?’

What could he get her?

She wanted to laugh as the word you rode on the tip of her tongue but instead she looked to Darren, ‘I’m already being taken care of.’

He followed her gaze. ‘Is that another vodka martini?’

‘It is.’ She smiled, her fingers toying with the empty stick still floating in her glass. ‘I think I’ve found a new favourite drink.’

His eyes travelled from her to the stick. ‘It’s quickly becoming one of mine too.’

She could take a guess at why. She would have said as much if he hadn’t spoken first.

‘So, what brings you here?’ He angled himself towards her, his forearm resting on the bar-top, his fingers coming to hover just above her knee. ‘Beautiful woman, no companion—it just doesn’t fit.’

Beautiful? She loved how that sounded coming from him, loved how close his fingertips were reaching. If she just uncrossed her legs they would brush against her, those long, capable fingers that were sure to possess such skill...

‘Business or pleasure?’ he probed.

Her eyes shot back to his, her thighs clenching anew. The way he said it—pleasure—it rolled off his tongue like a physical caress.

‘I was meeting someone...’ She was barely aware of the words coming out of her mouth.

‘Was?’

‘They cancelled.’ She lifted her empty stick and nibbled at its end, needing to do something—anything to keep herself busy. ‘What about you?’

He eyed the stick, a pulse working steadily in his jaw as he took up his drink once more. ‘Business.’

She could hear it then, in that one simple word, an edge to his voice. A barely contained need that matched her own.

Her attack on the stick ceased, and her breath was shallow as she struggled to say, ‘Are you finished for the evening?’

‘Never even started,’ he said, that same husky edge to his voice teasing beneath her panties. ‘Lucky for me, they cancelled too.’

‘Lucky?’

He nodded, his lips quirking over his drink as he took a sip.

‘And why’s that?’ she said, dropping the stick to caress away the strain building in her throat.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘Maybe—but I’d like to hear you say it.’

He placed his drink on the bar, his eyes coming back to her, ever closer. ‘Do you always get your way?’

‘Most of the time.’

‘Why is it I can believe that?’

He reached up to brush her hair behind her ear, his delicate touch sending an excited ripple through her, and then he trailed it down, the ripples multiplying exponentially.

‘What makes you say that?’ she asked, barely audible.

He studied her, his eyes dropping to her lips, their depths flashing darkly as she swept her tongue out to ease their sudden dryness.

‘I get the impression you can be quite persuasive.’

She knew what she wanted to say, knew it was brash, knew it was out of character, but... ‘Does that mean I can persuade you into an evening of pleasure?’

His brow flickered, the only show of surprise at her proposition, and then he grinned: a slow, heart-stopping smile that unveiled a dimple in his right cheek, the boyish feature at odds with the virile masculinity emanating from the rest of him.

‘Is that what you’re offering me?’

‘Would you accept if it was?’

He leant closer still, his breath teasing at the delicate channel of her ear. ‘Why don’t you try me?’

Heat flooded her breasts, her belly, her blood, and the world around her evaporated as she twisted into him, her lips instinctively seeking his...

‘Your drink.’

What?

Her disorientated gaze swept to the bar, to Darren sliding her drink before her.

Oh, God!

‘Thank you,’ she blurted, hurrying to mask the swamping disappointment. But he spotted it anyway, his smile apologetic as he picked up her empty glass and moved away.

‘How about we take this conversation to my table?’ came the appealing proposition from alongside her.

She brushed her fingertips across her lips, now thrumming with their near encounter, and flicked her eyes back to his. ‘I’d love to.’

* * *

He’d had to work hard to stop himself from saying place instead of table. And still he wondered—would she have said I’d love to in that soft, balmy tone if he had?

She gazed up at him with those green come-to-bed eyes and he wished he’d found out.

‘After you,’ he said, gesturing to her.

He made to pick up their drinks and then stilled, his concentration broken by the sight of her slipping from the stool.

Between the uncrossing of those seriously long legs and the cleavage he was working hard not to drown in he found himself rooted. Her height impressed him once again as she met his eyeline, her scent wafting up to him.

Not that he had any idea what herb or flower was involved in the making of it. But he liked it. A lot.

‘Don’t forget the drinks,’ she threw over her shoulder with a provocative smile, her eyes sparkling with mischief, desire, amusement... He hadn’t a clue.

It was taking his all to keep the conversation flowing and his own desire in check. Trying to read every fleeting expression that crossed her face and not jump to the conclusion that she was on the same desire-driven wave as he was nigh on impossible.

Grabbing the drinks, he followed her to the table, his eyes fixed on the sway of her hips, the fall of her hair as it brushed along the gentle flare of her bum.

What it would be like to have that same hair flung across his bedspread? Or wrapped around his fist as he drove himself into her—? Fuck, he was getting hard just thinking about it.

And there she went again, staring up at him as if he was seconds away from being devoured.

Now, perched on the end of the low-slung seat that had remained vacant at his table, her head came cock-high and heat rushed to his groin in greeting.

Adding to his pain, she crossed her legs, the action forcing her dress to ride high and reveal the top of a stocking, he was sure, before she righted it.

Too late. The damage was done. And she knew it. She’d watched the entire thing play out in his face. And, hell, he wasn’t even convinced the low lighting was enough to conceal the bulge down there.

He held out her drink. ‘For you.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, her delicate feline fingers slipping over his own to take it from him.

The contact was soft and brief, but total dynamite to his over-active imagination as the image of her taking hold of something else ransacked his mind.

He watched as she lifted the glass to her glossy full mouth and tilted it, the clear liquid flowing into her as the olive bobbed at the base of the drink. And then she closed her lips and swallowed, her tongue emerging subtly to take away the remnants. The sight was sweet perfection to behold, utter torture to his straining cock.

‘Are you going to sit?’ she said up to him, her raised expression making it clear she had caught him staring, good and proper.

Did he care?

Did he fuck!

‘Apologies,’ he said, dipping his head in mock regret, his grin telling her he wasn’t sorry at all. ‘I confess to getting lost in the sight of you.’

It was corny, it was overly smooth, but again he didn’t care. It was the truth.

He placed his drink on the table and took his own seat, feeling her eyes upon him the whole time. The nature of her thoughts penetrated the air.

‘A penny for them?’

Her smile widened. ‘Something tells me a man like you should know well enough that you never ask a woman that question.’

He gave an easy laugh, staving off the heat raging below his waist. ‘What if I said there’s something about you that makes me want to ask that question regardless?’

She set her glass down and pressed her elbow into the arm of her chair, leaning in towards him.

‘Then I would tell you...’ she began, her voice low and husky, each word spun out as her fingers took up a slow caress over the exposed valley of her chest. ‘In that case I would divulge exactly what I’m thinking.’

He would have—could have—dragged her away from the bar that very second. The way her eyes beckoned him, the way her wandering hands lured him, the blood surging to his cock—it was all getting too much and he hadn’t so much as touched her.

And, fuck, did he want to.

The need ravaged him. He wanted to taste every last bit of her, stroke her until she begged for him to complete her, fill her body until she could do nothing but scream his name.

And yet she couldn’t. They had shared a lot in a few electrifying glances, but they hadn’t so much as covered the basics of My name is...

They should at least get that covered. ‘Perhaps we should start with introductions?’

She laughed. ‘Introductions?’

‘Yes,’ he said, surprised at her reaction. ‘You know—me Tarzan, you Jane, before we get carried away with this—’ he waved a hand between them ‘—undercurrent.’

‘Undercurrent?’ she repeated, her eyes dancing over the word, her fingers still doing their crazy damn tour of her body. ‘You know, I think you’ve summed it up perfectly.’

His eyes followed her fingers, his control teetering as he succumbed to the pull of her caress.

‘So?’ he pressed, his brain only half on the attempted introduction.

‘So...?’ she mimicked teasingly, the action both maddening and arousing. And then she dropped her hand to take hold of the stick floating in her drink and all thought of conversation disintegrated, obliterated by the sight of the inoffensive little green ball slowly being stirred around.

It was coming—he knew it—and the power of that sight, up close and with every alluring detail to feast upon, had his knuckles turning white.

‘Who needs names in this day and age?’ She lifted the olive out of her drink and tapped the stick against the rim of the glass to rid it of excess vodka. ‘Don’t you think there’s something to be said for leaving a little mystery?’

She looked at him on the last word, the stick pausing to rest against the glass edge. ‘It’s not like I’m here looking for a meaningful relationship.’

He wanted to say something smooth, but she had him stoked to silence. The perfect package was at his disposal—sexy sophistication brandishing a fuck-and-leave policy. He didn’t do relationships—they were for the weak and the needy. And, hell, if you weren’t weak at the off, you soon would be when it fell apart or, in the case of his dad, got ripped away. Then it would ruin you.

He lifted his glass and took a careful sip, swallowing down the unwelcome memories and throwing his focus onto the attractive bundle before him. ‘You and me both.’

‘Well, then, wouldn’t you rather...’ she leaned across the table and brought the olive to her lower lip, her cleavage forming an alluring backdrop ‘...we just got the hell out of here and had some fun?’

She parted her luscious pink mouth and popped the olive inside, her lips closing around the stick as her eyes held his with deliberate tease. Then slowly, painfully slowly, she pulled it out, her lips rolling outwards as they held the olive inside, stripping the stick bare.

‘I make that three olives now.’ His voice rasped, his mouth drying up at the inviting slickness of her lips.

She considered him, her throat moving captivatingly as she devoured the green ball. ‘Three—really?’ She smiled playfully, dropping the stick into her glass with a ting. ‘You’re very observant.’

‘When something’s worth observing I’d say I am.’

‘Is that what I am? Worth observing?’

‘You with that drink—definitely.’ His voice was tight with the effort of holding back, and his lack of control was so alien he knew he was in trouble. But right now he didn’t care. ‘In fact, if I was a religious man, I’d say the devil invented drinks such as those.’

‘The devil?’ Her brow furrowed and she nibbled thoughtfully at her lip, the innocent gesture smashing the last of his restraint. ‘Because of the corrupting alco—?’

‘No,’ he interjected, pushing himself out of his seat and striding to stand before her.

She looked up at him questioningly, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. He knew he’d surprised her but, he couldn’t wait any longer. To hell with where they were.

Reaching for her hand, he took hold of it and tugged her to her feet, the force sending her unresisting body right up against his own, her eyes flashing as they lighted on his mouth so close to her own.

‘Because they make me forget all decency and do this...’ He cupped her chin and roughly took her mouth in his, his tongue taking no prisoners in its desperation to sink inside.

An explosion of sensations went off at once. She tasted like heaven, like the olive, the vodka, the traces of gloss across her lips... And then she sighed, the soft, feminine sound escaping her lips as she gave way to his invasion and he lost himself in her. Her hands snaked through his hair, her tongue seeking out his own, twisting and flicking, tasting and probing...

His surroundings disappeared as every sense focused on her: her kiss, her smell, the feel of her breasts pushed up against him, the little sounds she was making, the desperate buck of his cock as it pressed into her lower belly.

There was a movement behind him, the brush of a chair and a muttered ‘Excuse me.’ It filtered through his brain, through the haze.

‘Get a room,’ a voice said.

His internal voice or a real person? He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

But he should care...

He should!

Reality came crashing down—he needed them out of there. Now.

Forcing himself to slow down, he tried to part their mouths, their faces. He was rewarded with her teeth nipping at his bottom lip. A playful protest that felt anything but...

‘Spoilsport,’ she complained, and her pout was to die for.

He took a steadying breath. ‘You’re cheeky, sweetheart.’

One hand still cupping her face, he freed his other hand to rub it across his own, trying to get himself composed. He should be more unnerved by his lack of self-control—but fuck did he want to run with it regardless. Something told him that letting go would be worth it. That she would be worth it.

He scanned the bar. No one seemed to be looking their way. But that wasn’t to say they hadn’t been seconds before. That voice had sounded real enough.

‘We were having fun,’ she said, drawing him back, her eyes wide and alluring.

‘We were having fun.’ He repeated her words. ‘But I think we could have more fun elsewhere. I can have my driver here in five?’

Her eyes flittered and his chest tightened. Was she going to refuse him?

‘Driver, you say?’

‘Yes.’ He moulded his free hand into her back, pressing her against him, against the hard swell of his cock. Don’t deny me. ‘I promise he will see you home safely...after...’

He continued to caress her lip with the pad of his thumb, loving how her tongue would dart out sporadically to moisten the path for his touch.

‘In that case you’d best call him,’ she said softly, her hand coming up to take hold of his fingers and pressing a chaste kiss to their tips. ‘I’ll go and settle up.’

And just like that she was on it, stepping out of his hold and taking up her bag from the table, heading for the bar. He watched her go, his eyes hooked on the sweet sway of her body, he blindly retrieved his phone from his jacket pocket. He dropped his gaze just long enough to dial his driver and, efficient as ever, he answered in two rings.

‘I need you outside in five,’ he said into the phone.

‘Sure thing, Mr Wright. Where we heading?’

‘Home.’

He cut the call and thrust his hand through his hair. He didn’t take women home. He went to a hotel, or their place. That way he could leave when he was good and ready. Certainly before morning. But the thought of sharing this woman with an audience a second more, or navigating the whole reservation thing... He didn’t have the patience. Or the inclination.

But to take her home—what the hell was he playing at?