My Sinful Nights: Book One in the Sinful Men Series

by Blakely, Lauren

  I had to be smarter this time around. I had to be careful so I wouldn’t misstep again. So I wouldn’t let emotions get the better of me, like I’d done for so many reasons so many years ago.

  Drawing a breath, I spun around then smiled. This was a start with my new business partner.

  He grinned back, and hell, did that ever make my heart flutter.

  “It’s like seeing how a magician pulls off a card trick,” I said, gesturing around the empty space.

  “Speaking of, I’ve been working on card tricks. I’ll have to show you some of them.”

  “You do card tricks now?” I asked with a note of delight in my voice, because I could picture it. It seemed like his style. He’d always loved cards and had played in poker games at school. I could see him brandishing a deck with a “now you see it, now you don’t” sweep of his hands.

  “I’m not going to give Copperfield a run for his money. But yeah, I can do some basic stuff.”

  He took a few steps to the bar and rooted around, finding a deck easily.

  “Pick a card, any card.”

  I ran my fingertips along the top of the deck, settling on the ace of diamonds.

  A few cuts of the deck later, he brandished it.

  I clapped, pleased as a kid at a birthday party. As he put the deck away, I sneaked a peek once more at the man with me—so much taller, so much bigger than my small frame. My eyes definitely hadn’t been playing tricks on me last night. He was still devastatingly handsome, looking sharp again today in jeans and a navy-blue button-down. The shirt was untucked, and with the cuffs rolled up, his strong forearms were revealed, along with some of the ink he’d gotten in college. I’d gone with him to get his first tattoo, the black sunburst just above his wrist. I’d joked that it fit his “sunny disposition,” and he’d promptly scowled and glowered. But then he’d draped an arm around me and flashed me his winning smile.

  The one he was giving me now.

  “Can I get you something, Shan? Water? Soda? Wait.” He held up a stop sign hand. “Do you want me to call you Shay?”

  I shook my head. “When it’s just you and me, Shan is fine.”

  “Shan it is, then. For you and me,” he repeated, like those words were a delicacy.

  “And I’ll take a Diet Coke.”

  “Coming right up,” he said as he walked behind the silver bar. A small red gift bag was on the counter, as well as the usual accouterments of cocktail napkins and straws.

  I took a seat at the bar, while he poured a soda from the tap. He handed me the glass. “I’m not a bartender. I just play one on TV,” he said, imitating the deep tones of a TV announcer. I smiled.

  I downed some of the soda. I’d never been so grateful for a sip of Diet Coke before. It quenched my thirst and gave me some newfound courage to own up to my actions last night—walking away. I held the glass in one hand and parted my lips to speak. But he was already talking as he rounded the bar to stand next to me.

  “Shannon,” he said, his voice intensely serious, his deep brown eyes focused on me. “I need to apologize for so many things. And first, I need to apologize for letting you get away. I need to say I’m sorry for not trying harder. Hell, I should have flown to London and found you and wrapped you in my arms and told you then that I never had eyes for anyone but you. That I only wanted to be with you.”

  I froze, my fingers gripping the glass. All the words I’d wanted to hear years ago. My heart caught in my throat.

  I wanted to bathe in those words.

  Roll around in them.

  But I was here to right my own wrong. I shook my head. “I came to say I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have walked away last night. I shouldn’t have cut our drinks short and taken off like that.” I put down my glass then fidgeted with a silver bracelet on my wrist. “That was unprofessional. You’re a business partner now, and I hope you’ll still be one.”

  He tilted his head, then laughed. “Yeah, I need to tell you—I never thought you walking away would change the deal. I hope that doesn’t make me cocky, but it’s the truth. I figured your feelings for me and for the deal were separate.”

  “They are.” I let out a long, exaggerated breath. “Also, whew. Glad to hear that.”

  “But I’m glad you felt the need to come back,” he said, a wry grin on his face.

  “You are?”

  “I could tell you needed some time and space last night, but I’m glad you’re here, and I’d love to keep talking.”

  A smile tugged at my lips.

  Talking.

  It seemed so normal.

  Maybe necessary too, after the way we didn’t talk for years.

  Talking and touching—that was who we were back in the day.

  Now, we could do one of those things.

  And since I’d learned last night that so many of my beliefs about this man had been wrong, talking sounded like the right idea.

  There were things I wanted to tell him about, things I wanted him to know, like why I’d flown to LA—the full truth on that front. But today was not the day to serve up that terribly sad story. After the shocks of last night—shocks that still reverberated in my body—I didn’t want to add another one to the equation right then.

  There would be time.

  I took a breath to center myself, then looked in his eyes. “I’d love to talk, Brent.”

  “Good. Let’s start with clothes.” He lifted a hand, lightly fingering the strap of my silky black tank top. “What do we call this? A shirt? A tank?”

  I laughed. “Top will do,” I said, enjoying the way one little touch sent heat scampering across my bare skin.

  “Excellent. Then I have something for you, and I think it’ll go with this top,” he added, a glint in his eyes. “I wanted to give you something.”

  He reached for the bag on the counter. “I picked this up this morning. Dropped it off here before my meeting,” he said, handing me the shiny red shopping bag with slim handles. My heart beat faster. He had always given me little things when we were together. Pretty postcards of London, Paris, Vienna, and all the places I wanted to go someday. A song I’d heard at a coffee shop and wanted to listen to on my computer. A mini lemon cupcake, for when I permitted myself little treats.

  I opened the bag, rustled around in the tissue paper, and pulled out a thin blush-pink silk scarf. I didn’t even try to contain my smile. “This one’s a scarf,” I said playfully.

  “And I bet it looks as amazing on you as the wrap did. I also thought if you wanted to leave it behind, I can steal it again, so I can say ‘I’m sorry’ another time. I’ll say ‘I’m sorry’ ten thousand times if I have to.”

  But I had to apologize too. “I’m sorry too, that I didn’t tell you at the time what I saw. I should have given you a chance to explain yourself.” I sighed, half wishing I could turn back time. “It would have changed a lot of things.” But not everything, I added to myself.

  “Yes and no,” he said, his eyes locked with mine. “Because I was caught up in work. That was the bigger issue. I couldn’t figure out how to make us work. You were trying harder. You were shouldering the weight of us. And you were willing to bend to my schedule.”

  There’s some truth to his words. He’d canceled three trips, and I’d offered to come see him instead, but he couldn’t fit me in. But now isn’t the time to pile on the guilt. “It was hard for both of us,” I said diplomatically. “We were both at our wit’s end, trying to make it work.”

  He blew out a long stream of air. “I wish I had tried harder. That’s what I’m most sorry for. And I know this scarf doesn’t even begin to cover up all my regrets, so I hope you’ll take it in the spirit I’ve given it. I thought it was pretty, and I thought it would look good on you. But then, everything looks good on you,” he said, his eyes never straying from mine.

  Picking up the scarf, I tossed it around my neck, striking a pose. I was flirting, and surely I shouldn’t be. But it was so easy, so familiar to play like this with him. And it f
elt so good, even just for a moment.

  “Thank you. I love it,” I said, stroking the fabric. His breath hitched as I touched it, and I let go quickly, reaching for the glass of Diet Coke and taking another sip. My hands felt unsteady. I looked at him again. He was shifting back and forth on his heels.

  “But, Shan, that’s not all I have to say. That just barely scratches the surface,” he said, holding my gaze. “You know I never talked about the specifics of our relationship when I was doing stand-up in college.” His voice was stripped bare, the way he’d always talked to me when he wanted me to know he was serious. I trusted that voice, and I remembered the promise he’d made to keep the details of our private life out of his comedy. So I’d never be that girlfriend a comedian used as the butt of a joke in his routines. “That remains the case. But there was one bit I did, and I suppose I always hoped you would see it. I did it so you might see it. But you told me last night you never did, and I’d really like to show you a small part because I think this says everything I want to start to say. Will you watch it?”

  I gulped and nodded. I didn’t push back like I had when Colin had first wanted to show me the video. I didn’t resist. Maybe that made me a fool, or maybe it just made me ready. Four million others had seen it, but I was the only one who’d watch it as the intended viewer.

  “Show it to me,” I said, my voice soft, nerves trickling through it. He dug into his pocket for his phone. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I was incapable of staying away from Brent, not when he showed this sweet, tender, loving side. I’d come here only to apologize, never expecting he’d feel the need to do so too. But now that he’d begun his apology, I wanted all of it. Craved it.

  I leaned against the bar as the clip began—the part I’d seen about Facebook-stalking his college girlfriend.

  The on-screen Brent tapped his chest, the look on his face one of utter disdain for his own antics. “Ever done that with your college girlfriend? Searched for her on Facebook? I did that. Spent a ton of hours trying to figure out what she was up to. Translation—is she still hot and gorgeous, and did she marry some other guy?” He paused, shook his head. “Because I’m the guy who still pines for his college girlfriend.”

  A rush of heat spread across my chest at those words. Meaningless words, but still, the compliment thrilled me, and I turned to him. He was watching me, cataloging my reaction. I returned my focus to the phone, more interested now in on-screen Brent.

  “But in my defense, if you saw her, you’d pine too. She was . . .” He stopped walking, stopped talking, and for the briefest of moments, he was not onstage—he was lost in time, it seemed. The next word seemed to fall from his lips with regret and wistfulness. “Perfection. She was perfection. She was the one.”

  I brought my hand to my mouth, covering my trembling lower lip. I sucked in my breath, holding in all that I felt, the overwhelming rush of emotions. It was just a comedy routine. He was great onstage, even when poking fun at himself. But even so, I was flooded with so much possibility at the way he talked about me.

  When I’d originally watched the first half of the video, I’d wanted to reach my hands through the screen and throttle him.

  Now, I wanted to squeeze my own heart for the stupid way it dared to beat the tiniest bit faster when he’d said perfection.

  Because I was where I’d always wanted to be—believing him.

  Believing in the man I’d loved.

  My throat tightened.

  Silence cloaked us both. I stared at the screen, not quite ready to meet his eyes, too afraid of what I’d see. I’d only come here to clear the air for our business deal, and now I was spun back in time, feeling so many things again.

  Lust. Desire. Sadness. Hope too. So much hope.

  Without looking up, I asked quietly, “What part?”

  “What do you mean—what part?”

  “What part did you want me to see?” I asked, keeping my voice steady so I wouldn’t reveal the cascade of emotions waterfalling through my chest.

  I kept my head down. If I looked in his eyes, I’d lose myself. I’d lose my center. I’d lose every ounce of strength I’d relied on during the last ten years.

  His voice was a confession. “She was perfection . . . She was the one.” Then his fingertips brushed against my wrist. I lifted my face and looked at him. His eyes were serious. I believed him, just like I believed in my body.

  I’d always listened to my body, had always been deeply in tune with its wishes and wants.

  Since I was four years old, I had wanted nothing more than to dance. I had danced every day, harder, faster, better, until I was at the top of my game, and then I tore my ACL one day during a rehearsal. But still, I remained a physical woman. And now, my body and my heart wanted the same damn thing.

  “You know what else you used to say was perfection?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I absolutely do.”

  8

  Brent

  Perfection.

  That was how I’d always described kissing her.

  That was what I said to her after our lips met.

  Now, she slid off the stool, into my space.

  Exactly where I wanted her.

  Neither one of us said a word. Her green eyes were dark and intense. Her lips were so close. The inches between us were swallowed whole by the connection that crackled hot. She seemed to sway closer, and I moved in, seizing the moment.

  I lifted my hand to her hair, pulled back in a messy bun, different from the shade she’d had when I knew her, but beautiful just the same. A strand had fallen loose, chestnut brown and curled. I touched it, ran my finger across the single lock. Time melted away as I leaned into the familiar crook of her neck. The craving for her ran so damn deep it lived inside my bones.

  I inhaled her, that honey scent, a new smell that imprinted on me in an instant.

  “Shan,” I whispered, rough and gravelly, filled with so much want for her, which had built over the years, grown higher, spread farther, formed roots. Inhabited me. I was desperate to have her in my arms again, to smother her in kisses that erased all the years.

  “Brent,” she whispered, my name sounding like sugar on her tongue.

  I buried my face in her neck, layering kisses on her soft skin. “Where have you been?” I asked, though it was entirely rhetorical. She hadn’t been with me. I hadn’t been with her. That was the answer.

  “Where were you?” she countered softly.

  I lifted my face and looked her in the eyes as I brushed the back of my fingers along her cheek. “Thinking of you,” I said. I cupped her cheeks in my hands. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” I rasped out, and then I crushed my mouth to hers. I consumed her lips. I kissed her hard and greedily, and the world around me faded into a speck of nothingness because there was room for nothing else in my world but her. Nothing but the utter perfection of Shannon Paige-Prince wrapped around me where she belonged.

  No time had passed.

  No years had gone by.

  No regrets had dug deep inside me.

  We kissed like it was the first time, and the last time, and like it was for all time. We kissed like two people who wanted to climb into each other’s skin, to smash into the other person. It was crashing back into orbit. It was gravity reinstated. In the press of her lips, in the slide of her tongue, in the gasps she made, we hurtled back in time. All mistakes were erased in that moment. There were no doubts. No questions. She had to feel everything I felt. She had to want a second chance too. I dropped a hand to her lower back, yanking her close, but not close enough. Kissing was not enough. Lips would only get us so far. I had to feel her, touch her, taste her.

  She pressed into me, a full-body collision, grinding against me. I groaned as I reclaimed her mouth, my entire being consumed with a desire so powerful I didn’t know how I’d make it through the rest of the day.

  As she rubbed her body against me, I imagined the heat between her legs. It fried my brain and short-circuited my skull. Th
e desire to touch her enveloped me. I wanted to watch her undress, to stare at that to-die-for body that I’d missed so terribly, to roam my eyes over her curves.

  To touch her everywhere.

  To have her, take her.

  Hell, the way she fused her body to mine told me all I needed to know. She wanted the same things.

  I kissed a line along her jaw to her ear as she breathed hard. “What do you say we have a do-over of last night? How about we get another drink tonight and then end the night properly? With another kiss,” I said, skimming my hand along the outside of her thigh.

  Her smile lit me up, but her answer was what gave me hope.

  “Yes.”

  9

  Shannon

  For our do-over that night, we met at a low-key bar off the Strip. A neighborhood joint called The Depot that was the opposite of the glitter and glitz the city was known for. Brent

  knew the owner, he’d said. That was his style—knowing people, making friends with them.

  We ordered the same drinks as last night. Martini and whiskey again for our mulligan.

  We toasted, and he nodded at the pink scrap of fabric wrapped around my neck. “Nice scarf. Did some guy who’s really into you give you that?”

  I wiggled my brow. It was surreal to hear Brent say these words. “Maybe.”

  “I bet that guy wants to get to know you again.” He barely waited a second before diving into a litany of questions. “How is your family? How is your grandmother? Your grandfather? How is everyone?”

  “They’re great. They’re all great,” I said. “I’m going to see my grandma tomorrow. We do yoga together. She’s still as amazing as ever. So is Grandpa. He dotes on Grandma. Loves her madly.” I waved a hand in front of my face, as if it were a magic wand. “Enough about me. Tell me something happy. Your family was always the happy one. Your mom and dad were still together and actually liked each other—and still do, I presume. How’s your brother?”

  He caught me up to speed on his brother, Clay, who’d been married for a few years and had a baby daughter now.