"This dress is sensational on you," he says. I'm wearing a black halter dress with a neckline that dips between my breasts. The front of the dress has gold detail that follow the line of the V neckline and draws the eye to my modest cleavage. It's sexy, but still completely okay for this work event. I'm still on edge, though, because he has one hand planted near the base of my spine, the other holding my hand, and we are so close I can feel his heat underneath that tuxedo. My body reacts in subtle ways, my body arching into his ever-so-slightly, wanting to get closer.
"Nothing to say to that?" he asks, pulling back from me and giving me a seductive smile. I'm so glad I put nipple concealers on before I got dressed because holy moley, my headlights just came on. And I'm not talking parking lights. I'm experiencing the high beams that blind you on lonely country roads.
"Um, thank you," I mumble. My face is even hotter; my whole body flushed now. I place my face against the lapel of his tux.
But he pulls away from me again, making me look into his eyes. He's had a couple of glasses of champagne, and the scent of it hovers sweetly on the breath that fans my face. The man looks good, smells good, and makes me feel good—even if a little nervous. He's like James Bond level of good looking in his tux. He smells like man and sex.
"You don't much like compliments, do you?" he asks. He pulls me close again, my breasts press against the firmness of his chest, and my thong underwear is now so drenched that I'll have to peel them off later tonight. Right before I attack my pussy with my clit-sucking vibrator.
To answer his question, I shrug. "It's not necessary."
"Well, you should learn to accept compliments gracefully," he chuckles. "You're a beautiful woman."
"I think you're a little tipsy," I say.
"You're the best-looking woman here," he says, holding me closer. “You look like a snack, Smack.”
"And I think you're teasing me," I counter, scooting away from him. "Where are you going, Smack?" he whispers in my ear.
The annoying nickname sounds like an endearment. It helps that his lips brush my ear when he says it.
An involuntary shiver travels all over my body, and I fight for composure. He senses something in the way I move, and he stops right there, in the middle of the dance floor. I risk direct eye contact. When my eyes meet his, the expression in his gaze makes me suck in my breath.
His blue eyes are dark, the pupils blown, and he gobbles me up with his gaze. The sexual heat and longing in his eyes are palpable.
"Samantha..." he says. I'm aware that there is no daylight between our bodies, and I freeze when I realize he is aroused.
"L-Lincoln," I say, shifting my hips away from his erection. I feel excited, hungry, slightly out of control. I want to nibble on his lips. I want him to hold me again. I want everyone else in the world to disappear.
He tightens the hand holding mine, and his other hand presses into the small of my back. We stare at each other, entranced. I am vaguely aware that other bodies are moving around us, other couples are actually dancing.
His moves are confident, and a little sensual, and I feel uncomfortable. The buzz of attraction is back, and I can feel it like it's a tangible thing. I try to ignore it, just as I ignore the other inappropriate thoughts better left unsaid. I remember Dear Ida's advice in those moments when I find myself noticing how very good-looking Lincoln is. I am a professional, I tell myself, and Lincoln remains a well-paying customer.
Still, as we dance, and I feel his body move with mine, I can't help but let my mind wander to forbidden places. He holds me with a gentle, yet firm touch. His cologne is spicy, and his embrace is warm. When he's not being an arrogant ass, we get along great. The ease with which we sway to the music makes me a tad uncomfortable. It would be so easy to completely let down my guard and give in to the fantasy of this being a real date.
With that thought, I remind myself that we aren't a couple, this isn't a date, and I need to maintain professional decorum.
"What's the matter, Smack?" Lincoln says. He holds me close, and when he speaks, his lips brush the shell of my ear.
"Hm?" I say.
"Your spine just went rigid," he says. "And you let me call you Smack. What's wrong?"
"I'm fine," I say, realizing my distracted state. All the more reason not to indulge in fantasies about Lincoln Cooper. He is, after all, my client. And nothing more.
"Did I mention how good you look tonight?" he asks, his lips once again feathering the tip of my ear. I suppress a shudder, but goosebumps travel over my skin. I hold my breath, hoping he doesn't notice.
“Yes, you did,” I say, embarrassed. “And you look great too. How on earth did you pick such a well-fitting, flattering tuxedo?”
He chuckles. “I might have had some help from this woman who does a little of everything, and all of it well,” he says, holding me tighter and pulling me flush with his body.
My lady parts find this new proximity interesting, to put it mildly. Aware of the fact that his firm body has me losing my mind, I try for glibness when I say, "Bernadette is fabulous," referring to the personal shopper I used to prepare for this event.
"She's wonderful at what she does," he says. "But she had you to work with. Someone with your figure must be a dream to dress."
And happy to undress... I thought.
At that, my body warms and my nipples tighten to the size and firmness of small gumdrops. The idea that he does, in fact, realize I'm a woman does something to me. I involuntarily hunch my shoulders in the low-backed dress, trying not to give myself away. My stick-on bra does little to cover my state of arousal. As we dance, Lincoln's hand rests against the bare skin of my back. His fingers are lightly calloused, it would seem, and every time we move, I get the type of light friction that makes me want to arch my body into his. This is not doing anything to keep my thoughts G rated.
Does he realize how potent his touch is?
"You look beautiful, Smack," he says, steering me around the dance floor.
"Uh, thanks," I say uncomfortably. This is now the third time he’s mentioned my looks.
"You're the best-looking woman here, in fact," he says.
"Thanks again," I say brightly. Fourth time he’s mentioned my looks. This dance was making me nervous, and I felt a blush creep over my skin.
He pulls back and studies my face. His clear blue-green eyes are concerned.
"What's wrong with you?" he asks again. "You're shaking."
"I'm fine," I say, averting my eyes from his intense gaze. "You know what? I think I'm going to get some air."
I need space from this man's presence. Surely, a little fresh air would clear my lust haze?
"I'll go with you," he says.
Shit.
"Actually, I think I'll be okay on my own," I say, tugging my hand away.
"Nonsense," he says, bulldozing over my objections. "You shouldn't be walking around alone if you don't feel well." The song ends at that moment, making it a convenient time for Lincoln to whisk me away. He steers me through the double doors of the ballroom, down a long, carpeted corridor, and out a side door overlooking the parking lot.
It's cooler now than it was when I arrived, and I shiver.
"Here," he says, removing his tuxedo jacket and draping it over my shoulders. It smells like him, warm, spicy, masculine.
"Thanks," I sigh, thinking I must have said it in one way or another at least ten times in the last five minutes.
He waves me off. "You need it more than I do," he says. "That dress doesn't have sleeves."
Lincoln stands a few feet from me. He gives me an appreciative look. I haven’t ever seen him looking at me so boldly before. His expression is flirtatious, a smile curling his lips.
"You seem looser than usual," I say. I'm surprised at how bold I am with him with his tuxedo jacket enveloping my body.
"Looser?" he asks, cocking an eyebrow at me, his lips twisted into a smirk. "Are you trying to say that I'm uptight?"
"What? No!" I say, no
t wanting to insult him. I let out a little shiver, and he strides confidently toward me, quickly eating up the several feet of pavement that separate us. He reaches for my hands, and his eyebrows go up.
"Your fingers are like icicles," he says, cupping them in his much larger hands. He raises my hands to his mouth and blows hot, moist heat that warms more than just my hands. I am consumed with an all body blush that travels across my skin and makes my ears burn. I want to pull my hands away, but I also want him to keep holding them. The crush I've had on him, the one I've been ignoring, bubbles to the surface, and I let out another involuntary shudder.
"Anyway," I say. "You seem a little looser than you normally are."
He starts to rub my arms, presumably against the cold, and says, "I have a confession to make." There’s humor in his eyes.
"A confession?" I echo.
His lips come together in a straight line. "I'm not sure Marcia Pittman’s interest is … entirely professional," he says, his eyebrows furrowed. I think about the redhead with the grabby hands and the immovable facial features. “And I would not ordinarily allow myself to mix business with pleasure."
Not ordinarily? Did that mean he planned to start something with his investor? Why did that make me feel some kind of way?
“I endorse that policy,” I say.
“I can think of only one person I would bend the rules for,” he goes on, his eyes smoldering.
Of course, I realize it is stupid for me to have any feelings whatsoever about this. We are not a couple. Lincoln is my client, nothing more. But I can't help how I feel.
"What will you do if she tries to hit on you?" I ask, steering the conversation away from the declaration I suspect Lincoln was about to make. I can see why a woman would throw herself at Lincoln. He’s a catch, for sure.
"I don't mind seeing her socially," he says. He looks down and away, but never stops rubbing my arms. It feels good to have his large warm hands caress me. Lord help me, I don’t want him to stop.
But the admission that he'd be seeing her socially bothers me. I try to remind myself of all the reasons why I shouldn't care, but my rational mind seems to dismiss those reasons.
"Anyway," he says. "Events like these do not lend themselves to business talk. I suppose I’ll have to catch up with her later.”
I am wearing his jacket, and with him in front of me, he surrounds me coming and going. I’m a little rude, I think, taking the comfort of his tuxedo jacket as my due while evading his touch by moving away from him subtly. He looks at me with a twinkle in his eye. What’s going on in that head of his? What would happen if I stepped into his embrace right now? What would his arms feel like around me?
"Let's go back inside," I say.
We arrive in the ballroom just as the music stops, and the emcee, a sixtyish woman, takes the stage to make an announcement.
"What I'm about to say is unprecedented in the history of this organization," she says. She grins ear to ear, and her porcelain skin is flushed with excitement. She shields her eyes from the glare of the spotlight on her and peers out at the crowd. "Lincoln Cooper? Get up here!"
Lincoln is surprised. He blinks rapidly, looks at me, and looks up at the stage.
"I think you better go see what she wants," I say, a small smile on my lips. I am so, so grateful for the unexpected interruption. He releases me, heads toward the stage, climbs the steps, and stands next to the emcee.
"Thanks to Mr. Cooper's eloquent leadership, we have more than $100,000 pledged for the community garden initiative!"
The crowd erupts with applause. Lincoln looks bemused as he shakes the emcee's hand. I smile and join the applause, because I inspired him in my own small way. Lincoln still speaks, but I decided it's time for me to leave before things between us become more awkward.
I catch Tamara’s eye as she sits at her table and give her a little wave. She returns the gesture, touches her husband’s arm, points at me, and he also waves. I leave the ballroom, exiting through the revolving front doors of the hotel. The cool evening air kisses my bare skin. I text the driver to let him know I am ready to leave. Once I'm in the backseat of the town car, I text Lincoln. I congratulate him on the recognition. I tell him I'll see him Monday morning for one of our biweekly check in meetings. I know running out makes me a coward, but the best part of the evening is over, and he no longer needs a date.
At home, I change out of the beautiful gown, step out of the shoes, wash my face, and contemplate not opening my nightstand drawer to take the edge off my sexual frustration. Frustration from spending time with my client, the knowledge that our forbidden attraction is mutual, and the curiosity sparked by the feeling of his erection pressed against me. In the end, I decide there is no harm in indulging in a little harmless self-love. It is a far better alternative than giving in to the temptation of being with him.
In short, Lincoln Cooper has been relegated to spank bank material. It's the most sensible thing I can do, I tell myself as I reach for the what I like to call the Clit-O-Matic.
I switch it on, then yelp in surprise when my phone vibrates on the nightstand beside me. Guiltily, I check the display. Of course, it's a text message from Lincoln. Who else could it be?
Tough Customer: What happened? Did you turn into a pumpkin?
Tough Customer: A Hero Club Novel Page 7
