Lauren Blakely - Night After Night

He shook his head. “Wear my shirt.”

“I don’t even have a bra on,” she pointed out as if his idea was ludicrous.

“I know,” he said, his lips curving up. “I like that.”

“You like me all free range?”

“You have beautiful breasts. I want to be tortured knowing they are just one layer away from me and covered only by something I was wearing an hour ago,” he said, trailing his fingers along the edge of the shirt, barely touching her exposed chest. A shiver ran down her spine.

“And what about my bottom half? You want me to strut around naked from the waist down?”

“I want you to put that skirt back on. Do not put on underwear. Just your heels, your skirt and my shirt,” he said in a firm voice. He held her gaze, his eyes darker than usual, waiting for her answer.

“Are you giving me an order?” She asked curiously, pushing her fingers through her hair that was still messy from sex. But she’d never minded sex hair. As far as she was concerned, it was a look that should be listed on the menu at all blow out salons. Updo, blown straight, or sex hair? I’ll take the sex hair, thank you very much.

“I’m giving you a request. One that I very much want you to fulfill,” he said, grabbing her hand and bringing her palm to his lips. He kissed her, his tongue soft and wet against her skin. She’d never expected being kissed on her palm would be so erotic, but it was, because everything about Clay was charged with his smoldering virility, like a trailing scent of lingering sexiness that surrounded him. She was familiar with the term “sex-on-stick,” but that didn’t even begin to describe this man. He was so much more than that. He was masterful, and he touched her in ways that felt unreal. As if it weren’t possible to truly feel that good. Feeling that good had to be a fantasy. But, this was no mere dream. It was an intoxicating sliver of reality.

“What if I want to wear underwear?” she said, challenging him because it was fun, because she could, and because he wasn’t going to pull a knife on her if she did. Here, she could be herself without fear of retaliation with a weapon. What a relief that was.

“Then I will take it off at the table and we’ll be right back where we started. So as far as I can see, you can leave your panties here, or I can take them from you at the restaurant. That clear?”

She nodded. “Commando it is then. And I am going to make you so crazy with wanting me that you might regret telling me to go naked.”

“Impossible. I’d never regret you naked.”

On the way out, she grabbed her clutch purse – a sleek little number from Coach that she’d snagged second hand – and her phone. The message light flashed.

“Damn,” she muttered, when she saw the text from McKenna. Are you alive??? Or are you otherwise occupied? I need to know if I should call the cops or congratulate you.

Julia grinned at the note. Clay raised his eyebrows in question.

“My sister,” she explained, tapping a quick reply. “I told her I’d text her when I landed. She worries about me.”

“So much that it brings out that naughty grin on your face?” he asked, swiping his thumb across her lips, and it was both sexy, but also skeptical.

As if he didn’t quite believe her.

But this time she was telling the truth.

The Red Line gave new meaning to the word Lilliputian. The restaurant was one long narrow hallway, as if it had been wedged in between the shops on each side. There was a long bar, and a few tables, and they sat at the far end near the restrooms. Clay had been here a few times; it was a popular neighborhood place on a cobblestoned street in the Village and typified what he loved about this eclectic neighborhood – it was thoroughly New York, but it had an individual feel to it from the black and white pictures of steam engines on the walls to the dark red counter to the hip hop playing faintly overhead, R. Kelly’s Ignition.

Julia had finished texting with her sister, and he was glad of that. He had nothing against cell phones, but the sight of one in a woman’s hands while he was with her didn’t sit well with him, and he had his ex Sabrina to thank for that. She’d kept her twitchy little fingers far too busy on the touch screen of her phone, then lied, lied and lied some more about what she’d been doing. She’d been involved in some bad shit, and had dragged him deep down into her troubles too. It had taken him longer than he wanted to untangle himself from those tall tales Sabrina had spun, and the damage she’d done to him. Since then, he’d vowed to stay away from that kind of woman since.

Julia’s phone was tucked away in her purse again, where it belonged. They’d placed their order and she was nibbling on appetizers. She plucked an olive from a small plate, bit it away from the seed sexily, then said, “Do you realize I don’t even know where you’re from?”

“Do you want to know where I’m from?”

“Obviously. I’m asking. I want to get to know you better. Much better,” she said.

“And I want you to get to know me much better. Where do you think I’m from?” he asked, taking a drink of his scotch.

“Chicago.”

He shook his head. “Try again.”

“Ooh. Is this another game? You like games, don’t you? First Mad Libs. Now I get to guess where you’re from. What do I win if I’m right?”

He leaned in close to her, swept her hair from her ear, and spoke in a low rumble. “You can pick the next position. But I know you won’t win.”

“So you’re saying you’re setting me up to fail so you can choose how to take me?”

“You think I’d choose badly? You think I’d pick a position you wouldn’t like?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said softly, and she seemed to let down her guard for a second or two. “I like everything you do.”

He couldn’t resist her, especially not when she dropped the snark, though he loved that about her too. But when she revealed her vulnerable side, he found himself wanting to be even closer to her. “I like doing everything to you,” he said, looking her in the eyes, then brushing his thumb gently over her cheek, before he kissed her softly, drawing out the sexiest little whimper from her gorgeous lips.

She reached for his collar gently, holding on as she kissed back, and it was a kiss that held the promise of so much more. So much of their contact was hard and rough, and they both liked it that way, but this was tender and sweet, and he wanted this side of her too. Judging from how she kissed him, she wanted it too.

Soon, she broke the kiss, and brushed one hand against the other, in a most business-like gesture. “Now that that’s settled, let the games begin.” She studied his face curiously. “California?” She shook her head before he could answer. “No, you’re not happy enough to be from California.”

“I’m very happy,” he said defensively.

“Sure, but California people smile all the time. There’s this thing called sunshine that makes us all dopey and happy.”

“Then how do we account for your sarcasm, Miss California?”

“I’m an outlier,” she said, as a waiter brought them water glasses.

“Water for both of you. And the kitchen is working on your orders. They should be out in about five minutes.”

“Thank you very much,” Clay said, then returned his attention to the beautiful woman by his side who wore no underwear. “I’m not from California.”

“Arizona? Nah. Somehow I don’t think they make them so kinky in Arizona.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “You never know. Arizona could be an incredibly kinky state. There could be entire colonies of kink in Phoenix.”

“If there are colonies, perhaps we should go exploring. But no, you’re not from Arizona, and you’re not from Oregon or Washington either. You’d be crunchy or have more of a penchant for plaid if either were the case.”

“I enjoy your process of elimination,” he said, leaning casually back in his bar chair, crossing his arms. No one ever guessed where he was from because it was the kind of place you weren’t usually from.

She pressed her fingers to her lips, then pointed at him. “And you’re not from Boston because you don’t have an accent, and that’s also why you’re not from the South. Or Texas, even though you feel very Texas,” she said, placing her palm against his shirt, spreading her fingers across his chest, tapping lightly with her fingertips. He was hard instantly from her touch. Damn this woman; everything she did was a direct line to his dick.

“So is there a guess coming, Julia?”

She shrugged happily, held her hands out in an I give up admission. “Salt Lake City,” she said with a smirk, and he laughed at her guess, so intentionally wrong.

“Vegas, baby.”

Her features registered no reaction at first. She was simply silent. then she laughed. Maybe in disbelief. “Really?”

“Yep.”

“No one is from Vegas. Vegas is where you go. Not where you’re from.”

“Born and raised there.”

She held her hand as low to the ground as she could from where she sat. “Like back when you were little?”

He nodded again. “That’s what it means to be born and raised.”

“High school too?”

“Happy to show you my diploma if you need more verification. Lettered in Varsity Football at Desert Hills High on the outskirts of town. Lived there til I moved east for college.”

“And how does one come to live in Vegas?”

“Generally speaking one has parents from there.”

“Clearly. And your parents? What do they do in Vegas?”

“My parents do exactly what you’d expect two people in Vegas to have done. They’re retired now. Mom was a showgirl. Dad owns a small casino off the strip.”

“Wow. That’s just so…” she said, then let her voice trail off.

“So what?”

“Unusual. And surprising,” she said.

“Why is it surprising?”

* * *

You have got to be kidding me.

Her heart had raced when he first said Vegas, but she’d reined it in, relying on her well-honed poker face. Because really, what were the chances that he’d hail from the gambling Mecca?

Of all the places he could be from she’d never have thought it would be the one place that had so much in common with her present, and the life of gambling she led. She’d been a card player long before her mandatory attendance at Charlie’s Tuesday night games. She knew her way around a deck of cards since she taught herself to play in high school, and then continued on during college at UCLA, finding late-night games in the dorms, winning handily most of the time, collecting extra money for her expenses, for textbooks and meal plans. Back then, playing had been fun, something she enjoyed. She and her sister had taken many girls trips to Vegas too in their early twenties. McKenna could never back down from a challenge and even though board games and video games were more of her sister’s speed, she was the ideal cheerleader when they’d played the tables late at night at the Bellagio on those trips.

“Just because you hardly meet anyone from Vegas, that’s all I mean,” she said, making light of her comment. She wasn’t going to tell him more. Not even McKenna knew how much Julia played these days, and how desperately she needed to win. Only her hairdresser had an inkling. It was better that way, safer that way for everyone. McKenna had a rough go of things for a while with her douchebag of an ex-fiancé, but now she’d met Chris and was happy beyond measure. Julia wasn’t going to ruin her sister’s happiness by letting her know about the crap she was dealing with. McKenna would only be worried, like a good big sister. But there was nothing McKenna could do about her debt, so there was no reason to let her know. She had to shield her sister from her troubles. If she kept McKenna in the dark, she could better protect her from Charlie’s shadow, and any harm he might do. The same went for Charlie; the less he knew about her family, the better. Chris and McKenna both ran successful, high-profile TV shows; she didn’t want Charlie to get a piece of them. They were precisely the type of meal he enjoyed best – they were flush with green.

“You like Vegas?”

“I do. And I can hold my own at a blackjack table.”

“Yeah?”

“Why? You think women can’t gamble?”

“Why would I think that? Do I look like a sexist pig?”

“No,” she said with a laugh, and held up her hands in surrender. “Do you play?”

He nodded. “I play poker a couple times a month. One of my lawyer buddies has a regular card game going on. A few of my clients play.”