Kayla sets her plate down beside me. I steal a glance at her selections.
“That’s it? You’re only having a sliver of each cake?”
“For now.” She stabs the first miniscule slice of ordinary cheesecake with her fork and raises it to her lips.
“I suppose you did eat half an Italian restaurant.” I shake my head, my gaze still focused on Kayla. I could give a damn about the cowboy on stage. “You never ate this way when we were kids. Did moving to the country change your appetite?”
She sets her fork down. “I always loved food. But my mom was a horrible cook. I wasn’t interested in boiled peas and overcooked chicken.”
“I remember. You would save me the drumsticks and give them to me at school.” And I was mocked for eating the cold leftovers along with the school-provided lunch. Eventually the fear won and I hid the food in my bag, waiting for a safe time to eat.
Kayla dives into her second cheesecake sample, but pauses before lifting her fork. She tears her eyes away from the stage and looks at me. “And now you keep a bowl of candy on your desk because you can eat whatever you want.”
“Granola bars.”
“Same principal. You want what you couldn’t have before. I love good food and exploring different flavors. My mom never cooked that way. And when I moved out, I was always watching my weight.”
I mentally page through the memories of my life with Kayla as if I’m looking through a photo album. She never ordered with abandon until she moved upstate. When she was living in the city, and married to her ex-husband, we’d meet up for dinner and she would select a salad and main course. Of course, most people order that way. But I didn’t realize how much her approach to food changed after her divorce.
“Don’t tell me Mr. Mistake wanted you to diet.”
She turns her attention to the stage again. For a second, I wonder if she heard me. Or maybe she’s ignoring the question, knowing that if she says yes, my desire to hurt her ex-husband will rise up again.
“He didn’t want me to lose my figure,” she says finally, still staring out at the swirling theatrical lights, and the musicians dancing below. “He never told me to diet or exercise, but I had to fit into the clothes he bought.”
“I hate him,” I announce.
“Me too,” she says ruefully. “I promised when I rebuilt my life that I would always be comfortable with who I am. I would follow my dreams and my passions. But my new life doesn’t offer a lot of cheesecake bars, or even dinners out. I live on a budget and cook most of my own meals. If I keep indulging like this, I might need to start exercising.”
“I can take you to my gym.”
“I don’t think so.” She glances over at me. “I’m not crazy about the receptionist.”
“Good point.”
“Although I suppose that depends on how long this lasts. If we’re still battling your ex with Operation Engagement in another week or two, I might have to take you up on the offer or consider cutting back on the take-out.”
In another week or two. My mind fixates on those words. It’s been a matter of days since we launched this scheme, and I can’t picture the end.
“I will order everything on the menu for you if it makes you happy. I think you look amazing just the way you are.” I make a show of stepping back and allowing my gaze to travel down her body. “Not that I can see much with that oversized shirt on. But even if we’re still doing this next month, or hell even next year, I think you should enjoy the cheesecake. I want you to be happy.”
She stares at me for a full minute. The band reaches the end of a ballad. Then the lead singer takes the microphone to introduce that next number. Cheers erupt throughout the stadium beyond our box. But I don’t spare them a glance. I keep my gaze focused on Kayla.
Finally, she turns back to her plate. “You don’t like my I Love Cowboys shirt?”
I let out a laugh. Not exactly the take away I was hoping for from my little speech.
“I’m not exactly a cowboy.” I turn to the stage too, resting my forearms on the counter. “Not like the star of tonight’s show. Do you think he selected those tight jeans? Or was it his stylist?”
She sets her fork beside the remaining pieces of cake and pushes the plate away. Then she steps closer and loops her right arm through my left.
“Oh, I think he picked those out all by himself. Not a fan?”
“I don’t generally judge another man’s pants.”
“Don’t focus on what he’s wearing.” Kayla’s fingers toy with my cufflink as if offering a subtle reminder that I wore one of my thousand-dollar suits to a roomful of people in cowboy hats.
“Just how good he looks in those pants?” I quip.
“Close your eyes.” She abandons my cufflink and rests her hand on mine. I can feel the heat of her body pressed close against my side.
I like having her close.
The thought floats through my mind and then drifts away with the guitar chords blended with the unmistakable sound of a harmonica. I hear the soft touch of a drumstick against the high hats. The vocals follow the instrumental introduction.
“I love this song.” She withdraws her arm and steps away from me.
I turn to follow her movements, silently cursing the country boy on stage. But then she begins to dance through the open space in front of the fridge. I’ve spent more nights than I wish to count in this suite, standing beside the long counter currently holding the cheesecake buffet. I’ve always thought of the stadium as a corporate place.
Now, watching Kayla move her hips in time to the kick drum’s beat, I’m seeing the dimly lit room in a new light. There are people in the suites on either side of ours, and thousands more down below. But this tiny corner of the stadium belongs to us.
“It sounds like poetry,” she adds in a breathy voice.
“I can’t follow the lyrics over the honky-tonk twang in the background,” I tease.
“He’s singing about a misfit.”
He’s singing about me.
Or maybe Adam Mc-Whatever-His-Name is part of the club of kids who barely survived childhood, but reached for the stars when he hit eighteen.
I listen a moment longer without taking my eyes off Kayla. He’s singing about music and the girl who falls for the rock star. That’s not my story.
“A guy kind of like you,” she continues. “A guy no one understands because he’s driven by something different. In his case music.”
“It’s not the same.” I reach for her, stopping her mid-spin. With my hands on her hips, I draw her closer. Down on the stage, the country star delivers a monologue about his next song. I block out his deep baritone and focus on Kayla. I hold her tight, unwilling to let her dance out of my arms.
“You’re not just another Mr. Misunderstood?” She steps closer and places her hands on my biceps. “A man who refuses to let anyone in? Who won’t let anyone see the past that shaped his future?”
“Another Mr. Misunderstood? I’m not that guy, Kayla.” I release her hip and raise my hand to her cheek. Gently, I tuck a strand of long, midnight black hair behind her ear. I stare down into her beautiful eyes. “Because I have you. From day one, I’ve let you in. I’m not that guy in the song—the loner, the misfit—because of us.”
Her lips part, and her mouth shifts closer. I can feel her body press up against mine, from her full breasts to her thighs. Her legs threaten to intertwine with mine. She’s so damn close I can smell the hint of lavender from her favorite shampoo. I can practically taste the sugar on her breath.
“Gavin.” She rises up her tiptoes, her weight transferring to my arms. “May I kiss you?”
“Do you need to ask?” I wrap my arms around her, holding her close with one hand on her lower back and the other touching her shoulder blades.
“I won’t take anything from you. This goes both ways, remember?”
“Yes,” I growl, no longer sure which question I’m answering. Our friendship goes both ways—I take care of her and s
he has my back. We don’t keep score. There’s equality in our thirty-year friendship. We’re in this together. Although I suspect this is about to change.
Her lips brush mine. Damn, from the first touch I want more. She tastes impossibly sweet. But I let her lead the way. She chooses to linger over the preamble, teasing me with the lightest touch of her tongue. Her hands roam over my chest, moving lower and lower until she brushes my belt buckle. “Kayla.” I murmur, pulling back from the kiss. I’m ready to tear off her clothes, gather her in my arms, and press her up against the wall. But first I need to ask. “Are you sure about this? You’ve been drinking—”
She raises an eyebrow. “One glass of wine and you stole half of it. Are you sure?”
I run my hands up under her T-shirt. My fingers toy with her bra, slipping beneath and lifting it away. I manage to release the clasp. My palms glide over the skin previously hidden by her bra, skimming her sides until the heel of my hand touches the swell of her breasts.
“Kayla?”
“Hmm?”
She looks up at me. I can see the pure want in her brown eyes. And I grin down at her. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
CHAPTER 15
KAYLA
“Prove it,” I say.
I’m playing with fire. Down below, on the stage, in front of the thousands of adoring fans, Adam Bates belts out the lyrics to one of my favorite songs. He’s signing about the best days of his year. And I think I’ve found mine. I feel as if I’ve been waiting for years for Gavin to look at me with an excitement that borders on feral.
Every inch of him radiates sex from his dark eyes to the powerful muscles tensing beneath his suit as if he’s ready to pounce on me.
Do it.
I don’t cede control easily. Though not many men look at me as if they wish to ravage me. My ex never did.
Mr. Mistake isn’t welcome here.
Not when Gavin is on the cusp of taking my breasts in his hands.
But he surprises me. His hands travel down my torso, slipping out of my shirt. Then his arms drop to his sides, and I miss his touch.
“Raise your arms over your head, Kayla.”
I love how he uses my name. Not that I would have ignored his request if he tossed out a “sweetheart” or “baby.” But I’ve never liked those words. Endearments strip away identity. I want the person making love to me to want me.
Admittedly, I might have more hang-ups then most after the way my ex tried to add me to his list of things he acquired when he started making serious money. A Mercedes. An Upper West Side Apartment. A home in Westchester. A Wife …
Stop thinking about him.
I raise my arms and focus on the big, gorgeous Alpha Male standing in front of me. He grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls it over my head.
“Margaret would be disappointed,” I murmur.
He tosses my shirt to the floor. “That I’m planning to fuck—excuse me—make love to my fiancée?”
“Oh no, you’re going to fuck me.” The f-word feels foreign and naughty. So does lowering my arms and reaching for the buttons on his shirt, but I do it anyway. “And that might ruin the cuddly image she wanted you to project.”
“She won’t know if you don’t tell her.” He shrugs off his suit jacket while I work on the shirt.
I lean closer, releasing the final button from the long row designed to drive a woman mad with desire to run her hands over what’s hiding beneath the businessman exterior. “We’re not exactly alone here,” I whisper.
He lets out a low growl as his dress shirt joins his jacket on the floor. I glance at his plain white undershirt. “I’m tempted to tear this off you, but the people in the suite next door might hear.”
The band chooses that moment to complete a song. There is a moment of silence following the last note. I pull at Gavin’s undershirt, eager to get it over his heard before he takes me up on my offer to destroy the last barrier to his perfect abs.
His shirt lands beside my half-eaten cheesecake as the crowd erupts into cheers and applause. And I run my hands over his chiseled stomach. “Wow.”
“I could say the same thing about you.”
“I don’t have a six-pack.” I look up at him, but his gaze is fixed on my breasts. “Not even a one-pack. I’m pretty sure I’ve hidden all of my muscles beneath dumplings, pasta, and cheesecake.”
“Kayla, your breasts have one-hundred percent of my attention right now.”
I reach for the button on my jeans. “I wonder what will happen when I strip off my pants.”
The corner of his mouth curls up. “We’ll give anyone who dares to look in here a show. No cowboy boots required.”
I know Gavin. I’m familiar with his bad-boy reputation. Heck, I’ve seen the sex tape. And I’ve heard the humors. This set up alone—in a box surrounded by people who might hear us, or might catch a glimpse of us if they look up when the lighting is just right and the curious spectator happens to peer into our box—this is Gavin’s number one fantasy, with or without me.
“Kayla?” He cocks his head, his gaze flitting between my breasts and my face. “We can wait until we get back to the apartment. We don’t need to do this here.”
But we are doing this. We both know there is no way you forget the oops-we-got-halfway-naked-in-public-and-almost-had-sex moment. That’s not exactly one that pops up in every friendship, even after thirty years.
“If we’re throwing out rule number one, why not start here?” I ask.
I know him. And if we’re going to do this, my pride demands that I set us up for success. I kick off my boots as the band launches into a song about sinners. My pants hit the floor beside the rest of my clothes.
Gavin’s hands are on me, running up my thighs, drawing me closer. The fabric of his suit pants brushes against my legs. Then he’s lifting me into his arms and guiding my legs around his waist.
He moves across the suite until my bare back presses up against the wall. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the rotating lights spin on their axis and illuminate the audience. The beam flashes through the suite like a police searchlight, and I feel it.
Maybe someone looked beyond the rows of empty seats at the front of the box and caught a glimpse of us back here.
Gavin’s mouth leaves a trail of kisses up my neck. One hand cups my bottom, holding me against the wall, while the other explores. But it’s not his touch that sends a rush of heady anticipation blended with a need that I can feel throbbing through the parts of my body he hasn’t explored yet—it’s the possibility that someone might have seen us. Okay, maybe it has a little something to do with Gavin’s free hand, currently teasing my left nipple.
My fingers reach between us, releasing his suit pants and guiding them down over his hips. When his pants reach his knees, I slip my hands under the elastic around his waist. The band snaps back against his skin.
“I haven’t done this in a while,” I whisper in his ear. “I might need your help.”
“It will come back to you.”
“I need assistance taking off your underwear and finding a condom.”
He laughs and gently lowers my feet to the ground. He strips off his shoes, his pants and his underwear before the next chorus. But I’m no longer listening to the music. Beneath those beautiful, chiseled abs stands a long, thick penis, the kind some girls dream about—or at least the kind this girl dreamed about for years.
Oh the things we can do with that.
“Wow,” I murmur.
“Keep staring like that and you’re going to make me blush,” he growls.
“I doubt that.” Then I hold my breath as he withdraws a condom from his wallet and covers himself. I lift my gaze away from his crotch. “I get it now. Why women hand you their panties. You look like a fantasy.”
He closes the space between us and I’m back in his arms. My legs snake around his body, holding him close.
“No pressure, though?”
“Oh no.” I reach between us and wrap my
hand around his hard length. With his cock in hand, I force myself to keep a straight face. “There’s lots of pressure. I’m not a big believer that sex against the wall leads to amazing orgasms.”
“Have you tried it?” His voice remains even despite the fact that I’m guiding his condom covered penis toward the goal.
“No.” I arch my hips toward him. “I’m hoping I will have a different answer soon.”
“You’re a virgin.”
“Not exactly.”
But this is my first time with Gavin.
I mentally shut the door on that stark reminder. Now, when I’m naked and he’s wearing a condom over his impressive erection, isn’t the time to make a pros and cons list of having sex with my best friend.
“Still,” he muses as he teases me, sliding forward until I can feel him starting to slip inside. “We shouldn’t rush this. Maybe we should take a step back. I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“If this”—I gasp as his cock fills me—“doesn’t exceed my hopes and dreams, I’ll … I’ll make you take the dogs out for their early morning walk tomorrow.”
“Kayla, if I don’t exceed your hopes and dreams, I’ll take the dogs out every morning for the next month, and bring you breakfast in bed.”
I moan as he begins to move. He’s cradling me in his arms as if all those hard-earned muscles were made for this. Heck, maybe he spends hours in the gym just so he’s ready when an opportunity for sex against a wall comes along.
“I might lie to win the bet,” I mutter.
His lips press a kiss against my neck, then another and another, working his way up to my ear. “I’ll know if you do,” he whispers. “I know you, Kayla.”
I know you too.
But not like this. Not until now, right here, in this suite.
Running my hands up his biceps, I loop my arms around his neck and hold on tight. The muscles in my thighs grip his sides. He’s lifting me up and down as if savoring each thrust. His arms hold me tightly against him. The wall behind me could disappear and I wouldn’t fall. The hand cupping my bottom works with his hips to set the pace. His other arm wraps around my waist. His hand is splayed across my back. I arch against his hold and my head drops back against the wall with a thud.
Mr. Misunderstood Page 13
